**insert laughter here**

“Everlee, what are you doing?”

“I’m just….tickling my nipple.”

---

Ahhhhh, yes…the dreaded time has come. Sick days. In theory, they should be a day of rest, naps, and complete down time.  But for a parent, these are all laughable expectations. Parents are 500 times busier on a sick day than they are any other day. And for this, I am positive that germs only exists to slowly kill off parents.

Imagine this:

You wake up in the morning with a laundry list of “to-do” chores that you are ACTUALLY excited to get done before heading off to work for the night. You quickly make a homemade, healthy, from scratch breakfast for your kids, complete with all five different food groups. (LOL JK you pour them a bowl of Cheerios as you try not to fall asleep mid-pour and then you call it a day). You then decide that it is time to brew the liquid energy that will be an absolute necessity in order for you to kick-start this “Get Shit Done” list. COFFEE. AHHHHH sweet, sweet Columbian bean juice. The literal ONLY thing that prevents you from developing full-on sleep deprived narcolepsy. Without it, who knows where you might fall asleep? The refrigerator? On the toilet (*ehem, AGAIN*)? On the washing machine? Possibly in the middle of the stairs? Without that liquid caffeine (I like to refer to it as Mommy cocaine), this is all VERY likely. So you fire up that shiny, beautiful, GIFT FROM GOD of a coffee pot, also known as the Ninja, and you work diligently to craft the most delicious caramel macchiato that you can. You then mentally rename yourself “Barbara the Barista” and give your self an accomplished pat on the back.

Then you take a short moment to park your pajama-ed rear on the couch, sip your mommy cocaine, and watch your kids start to tear the house down board by board while you idly sit by. Truthfully, you are simply just trying to procrastinate putting on a bra for as long as you possibly can, but I digress. You begin to mentally prioritize the “GSD” list (as aforementioned, GSD=Get Shit Done. Similar to Rachel Ray’s EVOO, but much more awesome and much less annoying. Ya dig?) So now, the kids are playing RELATIVELY nicely with each other, you have an organized mental plan of how to successfully tackle your GSD list, and the macchiato is starting to jolt through your veins like the sight of a shirtless Gap model pushing a vaccuum cleaner. It is time to start checking things off that list.

But then, right as you get yourself elbows-deep in to the first task and just begin to mentally congratulate yourself for putting on that bra, your oldest love nugget starts crying. Like sobbing, ugly crying. Out of the blue. For no reason whatsoever. And when you try to console her and figure out exactly why the tears are flowing so steadily, she stops crying and says:

“I just want to go to my room and go to sleep. I’m tired. I need to go to sleep.” And she walks herself up the stairs and puts herself in to bed. Approximately 4 minutes later, you can hear her Yeti snoring from all the way downstairs.

F***!

This is not good. To an outsider, this unexpected nap time might SEEM like a positive thing, but you know better. This spawn hasn’t taken a nap in MONTHS, especially not voluntarily. Your mommy instincts start to go in to overdrive and you just KNOW that something is wrong. You promptly text your husband and ask him to bring home some children’s Tylenol from the store when he gets off work. When he asks why, you respond the only way you know how:

“Because our lunatic daughter just went from completely normal and playing with her brother to a crying, blubbering psycho in 10 minutes flat and then put herself in bed at 11:00 am. Something is VERY wrong with her. Bring home the damn Tylenol. Please. I love you. YOU’RE THE BEST.” (heart emoji, double heart emoji, kissy face).

Then you sit at the top of the stairs, just outside her door, and wait for the madness to ensue. No amount of mommy cocaine could take the edge off of the pit that sits in your stomach. And just when you are positive that your body has created a fresh, pulsing ulcer in a matter of minutes, you hear the door to her bedroom open. And there she is. Just standing there in the doorway like a pale, unkempt preschool zombie. And all you know to do is stare right back. You are like a scared rabbit in the face of a snarling wolf. It’s either fight or flight, and you are pretty sure that your momly duties legally prevent you from running away, so you just sit and stare right back.

And then it happens. It is exactly what you knew was going to happen but dreaded anyway. She bursts in to tears and yells “I HAVE TO THROW UP!”. After this, it’s all a blur. Your body kicks in to auto pilot and you sprint to that zombie child and scoop her up as fast as you can. Good thing you finally put that bra on, because this unexpected bouncing would NOT have been fun without the support of that good ol’ underwire. You mentally remind yourself that YES, bras are indeed important and YES, this is why you should continue to wear one every day. *nods head approvingly*

While you make the seemingly MILES LONG TREK (*ehem* approximately 50 feet, but it felt like way longer SO LOCK IT UP) to the bathroom, every fiber in your body is PRAYING that you make it to the toilet before the pre-digested massacre takes place. When you FINALLY take that first step in to the bathroom doorway, you breathe a quick sigh of relief. YOU DID IT, YOU JUST MIGHT MAKE IT! But then…….nope. Too late. It happened. And your walls, toilet paper holder, sink, toilet, and tile floor all hate your face for selfishly eating too many burritos and not being able to run fast enough to prevent this disaster. In the midst of your poor, upset preschooler unloading all of those Cheerios all over the bathroom (thank GOD you were too bad of a parent to cook the homemade pepper quiche that Holly Homemaker posted on facebook and instead opted for the lazy Cheerios route, because karma is a fickle bitch and this could have been a really colorful shit show!) you realize that, just like that, in a matter of seconds, your whole “GSD” list goes down the crap hole (ironically where this regurgitation SHOULD be going but, alas, is not). This is what you get for even THINKING about being productive today, asshole. Next time, you’ll learn.

Now that the momentary storm has passed and your crotch spawn is temporarily vomit-free, you go find your rubber gloves, nose plugs, and cleaning supplies and start the disgusting process of sanitation. But wait…you have TWO children. Not one, but TWO. OH, GOD. WHAT DID THAT ONE YEAR OLD SET HIS SIGHTS ON WHILE YOU WERE KNEES DEEP IS DIGESTIVE FLUIDS?! So you set your smelly, flu-ridden oldest in the bathtub under strict instruction not to move until you get back, and you take off on a literal man hunt for the chubby, mischievous baby. Where is he? What is he doing? I’m sure he’s put something is his mouth, TELL ME IT’S NOT A FRIGGEN SHOPKIN! DAMN IT, SANTA, FOR THOSE BLESSED SHOPKINS! Once downstairs, you hear him, but you can’t see him. You shout out “MARCO!” before you realize that you are an utter idiot and he is a baby and clearly not yet skilled in the game of Marco/Polo. He still eats his own toes, for cripes sake, but you are still in overdrive and it seemed appropriate at the time.

Then you hear it. GRRRRRUUUUUNNNNNNTTTTTT. Grunt. Grunt. Squeek.

*silence*…….

AARRRGGGGHHHHHH. GRUNT. Looooonnnnnnggggggggg breath.

FRIGGEN A, HE’S CRAPPING HIS PANTS. 

You have one child upstairs sitting in an empty bathtub covered in vomit, and you have another one hidden somewhere amongst the thousands of toys, shitting his flippin’ britches. You then think to yourself “This is it. This is the end. This is how I die.”

Once the grunting ends, you mentally try to shake the “poor me” thoughts from your head and un-stick your frozen your body long enough to find your craptastic toddler. Since your hearing is failing you, you decide to cash in on another sense in a feeble attempt to locate the missing child. YOUR SENSE OF SMELL. ::shutter:: He shit his ever-loving pants, surely you can SNIFF him out. This HAS to work!

It works. He smells like a porta-potty cleaner on college game day, he couldn’t hide for long. You swipe that poop-ridden squishy up and run back upstairs to check on Pukemaster 3,000. You find her sitting on the bathroom floor in a pitiful pile of puke and tears, and you decide that her well being currently takes precedent over the other shit storm of a diaper. You decide to put the baby in his crib to hang out until you can thoroughly clean and disinfect this nightmare of a bathroom, at that point you would then go take care of Fecal Fred. But before you could turn around to execute said plan, you hear the pitter patter of tiny fat feet with the splish splash of an unknown liquid.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!

It’s like time slowed to an almost stop as your life flashed before your eyes. You knew what was happening, but you couldn’t stop it.

You turn around and there he is, jumping around in the Cheerio puke that never made it in to the toilet bowl. You then quickly realize that this TRULY is the end. This is REALLY how you die. Game. F***in. Over.

FAST FORWARD 3 Hours:

You have bathed, cleaned,and re-clothed both spawns. You have scoured the bathroom and have reinstated it’s original puke-free state. You have washed your hands NO LESS than 80 times and changed your clothes after each puke-isode. You have situated the Pukemaster on to a bed of towels and blankets within steps from the bathroom and put on a movie. She has promptly passed out cold and is snoring between barf-fests. You have put Shitster McGee to bed for a nap, complete with fresh, turd free diaper. You have said no less than 10 prayers that the baby and you can escape the death sentence of this sickness. You have already scratched the entire “GSD” list and have decided to instead sit down and read a book while the kids get some rest. You head back upstairs to sit near the Pukemaster, ready to toss her the puke bowl at a moment’s notice. But just when you open the door and expect to find a sleeping child, you instead find her sitting up in bed. Without a shirt. Smiling and rubbing her chest. You try your best to stifle the laughs and then proceed to ask her what exactly she is doing. She coyly looks right at you, square in the face, and matter-of-factly says:

“I’m just tickling my nipple.”

*insert copious amounts of laughter here*

Laughter, that is all you have left at this point. You REALLY want to delve deeper and question her in an attempt to find out what EXACTLY her motivation is for ‘rubbing her nipples’, but you are too mentally unstable to do anything but laugh. Here she is, sicker than sick, running a very high fever, looking like complete death, and puking every half hour in to a bowl; and yet she still has the energy to sit up in bed, take her shirt off, and rub her flippin’ nipples. That shit is funny, I don’t care who you are. 

The next morning, after you have spent the night “sleeping” on the couch (more like waking up every hour to talk her in to not raiding the pantry out of starvation and to make sure that her moans were in her sleep and not because she was going to spew like Old Faithful, but I digress) and doing your best to keep the baby away from painting the walls with the ‘paint’ from the puke bowl, you are adequately and thoroughly exhausted. This sick day has turned in to a mental breakdown with a side of narcolepsy. Getting all 100 items checked off the “GSD” list AND going to work until 10 p.m. would have been significantly easier than this craphole of a day. And while you are just about ready to pass out cold, face down on the hardwood floor, you look on the stairs to find this:

“Cause I’m a STAR”

REALLY? SERIOUSLY? How does she DO that? How does she go from knocking on death’s doorstep a mere 12 hours prior to then dressing up in weird dance costumes, painting her face like Braveheart, and proclaiming her impending stardom? Where is this energy coming from? Neither of you got ANY amount of sleep in the last 24 hours and she is ready to make her appearance on American Idol while you try not to sleep-drool on the hardwood! Our energy levels are WAY out of balance here. When you are sick, you see the white light coming your way and are physically unable to remove yourself from the couch for approximately 4 days. But kids? They magically bounce back like 2004 Britney Spears.

So you drag your drooping body to the bathroom, splash your face with freezing cold water from hell, and you hobble over to that Ninja once again. But this time, you skip the caramel macchiato and go straight for the espresso. Black. With no fillers. And even THAT won’t erase the two dark holes that have replaced your eye sockets. 

Damn you, sick days. Damn you.