Sunday night Mary threw up again. And then two hours later David started. And by morning I was sicker than the two of them combined.
That was definitely more vomit than I care to see (or smell, oh the SMELL) in my lifetime, let alone a 24 hour period.
I handled the first round with relative grace (if the word "grace" can be used when talking of puke). But by the second round, I was getting sick and my own nausea sent me well beyond my cleaning-up-gross-things capacity.
Fortunately, I could call in reinforcements. We happened to be staying at Greg's parents' house, and my mother-in-law graciously arose at 3:30 am to care for us.
The next day while I was completely incapacitated in bed (or in the bathroom), David perfected barfing both into the toilet and into a bag.
Besides all the gross stuff and the never ending loads of laundry, Grammy spent hours rocking an agitated Mary to sleep in the wee morning hours, made two trips to the grocery store with my children, and managed to coordinate getting my car serviced by their mechanic that day (which was the primary purpose of our visit). Plus, she kept Mary (who was quite perky and in mess-making mode) and David (who took all the puking in stride) entertained enough to keep them from climbing all over their dying mother.
Today we finally made it back to Flower Mound, where my mom tended the kids while I passed out on my bed for hours. And then she made delicious homemade chicken noodle soup.
As you can see, 1 Corinthians 10:13 still holds true. God knows what you handle. And for the rest, He sends you angels.
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