What the hell, Santa?! What ever happened to leaving a lump of coal in a sock? That would be sufficient. Believe me, I would get the hint, and I would be better next year. (Ok, probably not, but still.)
It started about two weeks before Christmas. Fabulous enough. Let the barf fest begin. The littles began in their traditional way of kicking off a good old-fashioned plague by waiting until the middle of the night, when much to their unsuspecting parents’ dismay, gagging noises were heard from far down the hallway. Being the loving, nurturing mommy that I am, my first thought was, ‘Can this shit EVER happen during daylight hours?’ And that was quickly followed by, ‘Oh, Dear Lord, please let that be the cat hacking on a giant hair ball.’
But oh noooo, it was Kid #1, starting the barf parade that would continue for almost three weeks.
One by one, they all fell like dominoes. Not a blanket was left in the house. Our meager laundry facilities were no match for the mountains of putrid blankets and pajamas and towels our children produced. I lost count of the number of bottles of detergent, bleach, sanitizer, and other miscellaneous crap we went through during the Scourge of 2011. People kept telling me that maybe I shouldn’t spray the children with bleach and such, but nay, nay! Every time one of the little germ-mongers came at me with that foul-smelling vomit breath, I swear I was tempted to hose them down. (There, there sweet little pumpkins, Mommy is here.)
But there was finally a light at the end of the tunnel. We made it to Christmas Eve, and everyone was well. Healed! (I’m using my best televangelist voice here, waving arms above my head in the air, and requesting all your money—cashier’s check would be acceptable.) Healed, I say! Witness the miracle right here before your very eyes!
Except. (Imagine foreboding music playing, signifying that some more shit is about to go down.)
Here’s the deal. Santa finished his business at about 10:00, snuck some of the candy from the stockings, and went to bed. At approximately 11:00 p.m. Santa’s entire digestive tract was overtaken by mutant alien life forms from hell. Santa then spent the next 6-ish hours running back and forth from the bedroom to the bathroom, intermittently praying for death and cursing his petrie-dish children for being the carriers that they evidently are. (Ok, I’ll confess, Santa is me…for those of you who were still wondering. And if I’ve ruined the magic and wonder of your Christmas by bursting your Santa bubble, just wait until you hear about the barf in the stockings.)
Anyway. Merry Christmas. Where’s the Pepto? I made it through the initial “Look what Santa brought!” and “Oh my gosh, it’s just what I wanted!” and all that stuff, and then I quietly slithered upstairs to die while Jason was left behind in the wreckage to put batteries in approximately a gazillion toys and charge half a gazillion electronics and do uploads and downloads and gift cards and Nerf guns and a whole bunch of other fun stuff that I vaguely remember.
Happy New Year!