Must ... Not ... Inhale

The fact that I just Googled "how to clean vomit off couch" really tells you all you need to know.

But hello? This is me. I always tell you more than what you need to know. Heck, I tell you more than you want to know. It's my personal motto.

You're welcome.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we? I was all set to write a post this morning about how Natalie is sick with a fever-cough thing. (Could be a cold or could be the flu according to Internet diagnosis engines. And yes, I agree that I am entirely too cozy with Google.) (Random question of the week: Why do we say a cold and the flu? We all know there is more than one strain of influenza. Yet it somehow retains the formal proposition of "the." Like it's The Queen or The President of The Brangelina. Weird.)

Anyway.

The Sickness is noteworthy because its the first illness we've had in our family in about a year. That's right. Twelve months without so much as a runny nose.

I don't know how we got so lucky. Maybe it's Corey's alien DNA. (For the uninitiated: My husband is adopted, and we know nothing about his genetic background. However, many external signs point to a Vulcan father. Something about the pointy ears.) Maybe it's because I let the kids eat food out of the garbage can to build their immunity. Maybe it's because I'm still nursing my six- and four-year-old, and we all know mother's milk strengthens immunity.

(JOKING! Oh, I'm so sorry about that last one. But I just cleaned vomit off my couch. I'm entitled to some dark humor, don't you think?)

Whatever the reason, we've managed to fight off all viruses and bacteria (minus the mastitis, which doesn't count in my book) until this weekend.

And I think I know what turned the tide.

I was getting smug. A little cocky. A tad too confident in our family's extraordinary germ-fighting immunity.

Pride cometh before the vomit.

So Saturday, when Natalie started to say, "I don't feel good, Mommy," I knew what was coming. After all, most of the blogs I read and many of my real-life friends have been, "The whole family is sick, I have vomit in my hair and in my bed, I hate February" for the last six weeks.

I took her temperature -- 101.2 -- and dished out some bubble-gum-flavored Tylenol and made her a nest of blankets on the couch where she could watch Noggin to her heart's content.

This morning, Connor joined in on the "I don't feel good, Mommy" chorus. At first, I thought he was faking it to get some of the great medicine Natalie's getting. (We get sick so infrequently, the kids think medicine is an elusive treat, a grape nectar of the gods.) But when he wouldn't eat breakfast -- and this child often out-eats me at breakfast, which is saying something -- I knew he was for real.

And the vomit said child just spewed onto my couch? Also very real.

Excuse me while I dry heave. Because -- trivia -- the smell of vomit is my Kryptonite. I try my darnedest not to breathe through my nose while I'm cleaning up the mess, but I rarely succeed. And it only takes one wiff for me to start compulsively gagging.

So if anyone's looking for us, this is where we'll be. Sitting on the couch, avoiding the spots soaked with Febreeze and marinating in Noggin. (Except for Yo Gabba Gabba, if I can help it. Seriously, is that not the American answer to Boohbah? Bizarre! Naturally, my kids love it.)

Oh, and Jon? What night this week would you like to come over for dinner? We can't wait to see you.