The fricken universe is reading my blog. I know so. How do I know so? Because in my last post, I mentioned the fact that from time to time my children take front row when I'm using the restroom (I refuse to use the p word again—refuse!) and not three days later I was struck with a nasty bout of food poisoning.
I imagine the conversation went something like this:
Universe to E. coli and Staphylococcus: "That whiny Mrs. Mullet thinks she has it so rough with the occasional bathroom performance. Let's really give her something to bitch about."
The vehicle of destruction? A fish sandwich.
A fish sandwich brought to me by my Mulletville Corp co-workers, who invited me to meet for lunch and said they'd bring me something off the menu from Mulletville Restaurant. Why did I eat something made in Mulletville and why did I eat something brought to me by people who have been picking up my slack since December? They probably asked our fellow workers to use the bathroom and then wipe their hands on my fish sandwich.
They were probably trying to kill me.
They achieved something much more painful than death.
First came the chills. Then the fever. Then the crippling stomach cramps. And then... the trips to the bathroom.
They started in the middle of the night. They continued on to the morning, when Chuck left for a freelance gig, despite my pleas for him to not leave me alone with two children in my condition.
The children quickly took their seats.
And again for a repeat performance.
Matinee? Sure! Grab a seat.
Mom's hunched over in pain? Let's look on!
Dinner performance? But of course.
It was one hell of a day. The bright side (there's always a bright side after one has recovered from a near death experience with an ambiguously named "fish" sandwich) is that I realize I have grossly overestimated my children's entertainment requirements. I knew they were content doing pretty much anything with me, but this makes me rethink that whole trip to Disney bologna.
Really, I'd like to see Mickey Mouse be such a sport on the can. At one point when I caught my breath I actually stopped to practice numbers with Junior using a deck of playing cards I found in the bathroom vanity.
"What number is—gasp! moan!—that, honey? Seven? Correct!"
Mother of the year? Yes indeed.