Monday. Just the boys. The pool. The swamp of goo. The thick oozing pond of Christmas crud scum. It seeped in through the cracks. It's my guess.
Thurs. evening: 11:48 p.m. Twin B has first episode in hallway. I step in it on my way to clean it up. Joy. 12:18 a.m. exactly one half hour later Twin A explodes on his pillow. And then nothing. Stomach aches on Friday. Saturday a.m. Twin A pukes on slate. He wasn't sure where he was going. Everyone still wants to go skiing. First day. Saturday 12 noon: Twin A vomits again in van on the way to the mountain. He is wailing, as he is vomiting, "I still want to go skiing." Paul Bunyan abides.
And I guess I do too.
Because we're mean, or nice, or selfish? And pepperoni pizza is perfect for a stomach infected with Christmas Crud....don't ya think? Because we're just plain dumb. You can say it.
And somehow everyone seems to enjoy themselves.
And no one throws up off the chairlift on top of the heads of the skiers below.
And no one has to pull over on the side of the trail to puke in the woods.
And she was happy because she didn't puke when her brother puked in the car. She had her fingers crossed and it worked.
And then Sunday Twin B pukes on the couch and then Twin A pukes on himself and then Twin B pukes at the mall and then jello and popsicles and crackers. And double fingers crossed that Big Momma doesn't get it. Because I'm tired of the annual purge. Ti-red.
Please tell me it ends. Please tell me they make it to the toilet one day. Please.