Greetings, long lost friend.

I’m squinting at my computer screen through a plume of Lysol as I peck at this post, trying to account for January.

My little petri dishes have cycled bug after bug over the past month, but last week truly merits a tribute.

Our Andy had been fighting the vomit comet days earlier but hadn’t puked for at least 48 hours.

Because his dinner shenanigans involve pleading he’s too full to finish, followed by immediate requests for snacks, I force-fed him.

A dinner of chili.

Yay, me.

Shortly after Andy went to bed, we hear a cascade of fluids coupled with screaming coming from his bedroom.

Scream-vomiting.

It’s a thing.

Hysterical, Andy’s wailing between projectiling.

Andy’s bodily fluids spewed nearly everywhere but the toilet.

Floors.

Walls.

White sheets.

White pillows.

White comforter.

White towels.

White shower curtain.

Red chili.

The vomit comet had conveniently started on me just an hour prior, so the chorus of upchucking was one for the scrapbook.

I’ll spare you the details. . .

. . .said no blogger ever.

It was like a sea of red from a horror movie—all of us and our walls covered in red [chili beans].

Drew, calmly placing Andy into the bathtub, before tearing the shower curtain down and throwing it away.

Andy, shrill, shrieking, “It’s in my eyes. It’s in my eyes.”

Me, spidering around the bathroom floor, between heaves, bleaching the chili-bean aftermath only to ralph on areas I had just scoured.

Drew, scurrying around, throwing away the lion’s share of our belongings with the slightest exposure to flu fumes.

One of us would vomit, the other person would witness it—then vomit in response.

You’ve really not lived until you’ve nursed a babe in between heaving.

But don’t feel sorry for me.

Or do.

Because do you know what happens to a person who stays cooped up for days straight, with two people under age three and no contact with civilization?

They bleach and bleach and bleach.

No, I didn’t get a pet Iguana.

Yes, these are my hands.

With scales and sores that crisco couldn’t grease.

Deep sigh.

Where do germs go on vacation?

They go to the bleach.

See?

You see.

This is what inhaling bleach for week after week does to a person.

Please send help now.

Now. 

Or at least send some vaseline for my pet Iguanas.