1960s TV Show? I don't think so!

Writing a blog was the furthest thing from my mind this morning as I cleaned vomit from the walls.  Yes, ewww gross.  I guess I should begin this story with the start of my day.

I thought I'd surprise my children for breakfast with a rare treat (something I soon hope to tackle and make homemade); pop-tarts.  They both ate their chocolate pop-tarts slowly.  That should have been a sign that something wasn't quite right.

After washing up, we started our school day.  Just as I was about to give Caitlin her Spelling Test while Zach started his Reading assignment, the interruptions started.  I thought the bathroom trip and sniffles were merely an excuse to avoid the task at hand.  But somewhere between Caitlin wiping her nose and Zach washing his hands, my son turned, meekly said "Mommy, my belly hurts really bad" seconds before his projectile vomit sprayed all over the bathroom floor, walls, and door.  

Tears burst forth.  At first, I thought it was Zach, embarrassed and upset with himself for getting ill (which would not have been his fault--just simply life), but instead it was my damsel in distress of a daughter.  She was cowering in the corner of the bathroom with vomit on her legs and feet.  "I'm trapped now!" she cried out to her rescuer, which I realized was suppose to be me.

I don't know about you, but I don't do well around the smell of vomit.  The moment I see someone gag, I run for the hills, eyes closed and hand over mouth.  But these are my children.  I'm their super mom!  I had to do what moms do best.  Close my eyes, hold my breath, and step right into the mess of things (if you know what I mean) to rescue my daughter and start the remedy/cleaning process.

Somehow during all the chaos of rescuing, cleaning, washing, mopping, scrubbing, and doing laundry following the episode in the bathroom, I managed to realize not only was my son sick, but also my daughter.  I now had two children with fever and a battle of bugs to rage war against.  If you have children of your own, I'm sure you know how I felt; helpless.  I wish I could snap my fingers like Samantha or cross my arms and blink like Jeannie to make them well again, but I'm not living in a 1960s TV show.  No, I'm a normal, simple, stay-at home mom who laughs at herself when she slips on the freshly mopped floors, cries with her children when she can't ease their pain, and remembers at the end of the day she still has to cook dinner.