*This post was written on Sunday; November 30, 2008 at 10:08 AM.*
The week started bad with Erin contracting a stomach bug that kept her home for a few days. That’s bad enough. She had been looking forward to the holiday-slowed work week to get some loose ends tied up. Instead, she spent it in bed. Fortunately, the malady cleared itself up in time for her to enjoy the fine Thanksgiving dinner that my mother put on. Sadly, I, on the other hand, was not so fortunate.
The bug had jumped to me and had me fully in it’s grip on that fateful Thursday. Earlier in the day, I had felt stable enough to make the trip there, but I knew that the pleasure of eating would be severely curtailed. My typically everpresent appetite was apparently content with the toast I had thrown to it hours before. But as the day wore on, I began to regret my decision to soldier on.
After an uncharacteristically small portion of food, a very mild round or two of Wii bowling, and a few hours of chatting, I was officially in the throes of sickness. Cold and hot, the ride home was uncomfortable. The walk through chilly night air from car to house was a spastic and palsied effort (although Thessaly seemed to enjoy the vibrating conveyance). And the night was an unpleasant, thrashing, sweating and shivering affair, buried in a polar fleece, flannel pajamas and socks.
But what stung worse than the illness was the fact that I was unable to eat to the point of bursting, unable to drink beer or wine, unable to eat but a slice of pumpkin pie.
And what I didn’t know was that the fun was just beginning. I *did* get my chance to feast like a Roman on turkey, potatoes and pie (much pie), and it was grand. But I paid for my extravagance.
We left the house Friday afternoon, after what we’d hoped to be the last time we’d have to deal with repairmen from Warners’ Stellian. The tech finished his work by 1:30 and we were on the road before 2.
We made the in-laws’ house by 4:30 and settled into their freshly inhabitable, self-constructed home. We were the first guests to arrive. The main event was scheduled for the next day as was the arrival of the rest of the family, but our small group of Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, Dad, and Grandchildren all enjoyed the inaugural meal of shrimp creole prepared in the newly furnished, spacious kitchen (of which I’m most jealous). I couldn’t eat much, as I was still convalescing, but I put in a good showing.
The night was a poor one. I retired early at 8:30. Torbin, and therefore Erin, retired at a late 10:30. I awoke at 10:45 and wouldn’t return to sleep until 2-ish. Thessaly was up at 5:45, and Torbin woke himself at 6:15 by thoroughly wetting his shirt and sheets.
A leisurely morning wound into a more densely populated afternoon. I successfully lobbied for an increase of pie count from 4 to 7 (2 pumpkin, 2 apple, and 3 cherry). And we ate well. Thessaly had a busy day of chasing cousins, hanging over railings and eating, eating, eating. Torbin was manhandled and admired by all. It was a fine day.
We departed at 8:30 and made our way back home in a thankfully quiet car. I listened to Clive Barker’s “The Great and Secret Show” as I drove through some not quite severe icy roads as children and mommas snoozed. Despite nearly overwhelming fatigue, a nice quiet drive is often the most pleasant way to end a very noisy day. Sadly, the drive home was *not* the end to my day. *That* prize would be won by the cleaning up of vomit.
We arrived home shortly before midnight. And moments after laying Thessaly down to sleep away the rest of the night, she puked in her bed. We had cleaned her up, changed her sheets and her pajamas, and were rocking her quietly when she puked again. On the rug. On the couch. And. On. Me.
In my underwear, I rinsed out barfy clothes and scrubbed the furniture while Erin ran a bath and scrubbed the barfy, but markedly more comfortable-seeming child. Sometime before 2, Thessaly once again asleep, and ourselves just lying down for the first time in 17 or 18 hours, bets were made as to when the little girl would rouse us again. As it turns out, we both lost. Thessaly made it through the rest of the night. And neither of us had though to bet on Torbin.
A 4 am feeding was required, and two and a half hours later, still not wanting to sleep, Erin implored me to take the little bugger. Unhappily, I did so. He did not seem remotely interested in sleep, so I popped him in his newly built jumper. He bounced for a few minutes, smiled at me, and then pooped. And it was suddenly clear why he wasn’t interested in sleep. However, the pleasure at my discovery and the hope for more sleep were short-lived. Thessaly had awoken.
Having been the one who’d puked the night before, and knowing what other kinds of effects a recent stomach bug had had on the two adults in the house, the girl took priority. I went into her room and checked her for stinky messes at both ends. She was clean. She was clean and she was mad. She was mad because she was “Owng-ry”. 10 minutes passed as, through a high-pitched, red-faced period of trial and error, I eventually discovered what she was owng-ry for (graham goldfish, as it turned out), and was finally able to return to Torbin, his diaper…and that which had not been contained by his diaper.
I had heard him poop, but it didn’t seem to be anything unusual. However, unbeknownst to me, Torbin had not pooped the previous day, choosing instead to save it all up for this particular moment. This small boy had stealthily unleashed what must have been a half-dozen gouts of yellow horror and timed the release to coincide with the waking of his sister to maximize spread, coverage, and leakage.
It was down his leg. It was in his sock. It was up to his shoulder blades. It pasted his shirt to his back. It was on the seat of the jumper. It was drizzled on the floor like a gourmet sauce. It was on the changing pad. It was on my hands. Erin was roused and while she bathed the little poop monster, I bagged the diaper and buttwipes, rinsed out and Spray ‘N Washed the clothing, washed off the jumper, and wiped the floor.
I have managed to convince my wife to let me out of the house for 2 hours for a cup of coffee, a muffin, and a chance to let this out. Soon, I shall be returning there, and I am afraid of what I’ll find.
Oh, and I forgot to mention: The newly repaired fridge was a balmy 50 degrees when we got home. GODDAMMIT!!!
Want to read about my bad experience with Warners’ Stellian and their extended warranty from the start? I’ve created a new category here at the Q-Blog that contains all posts that touch on the subject of my powerfully bad experience with Warners’ Stellian.
[Check it out.](http://q-burger.com/category/blog/bad-warners-stellian/)