I have neglected my blog because, I am first and foremost a mom. Not an entertainer. (Thankfully.) Usually I only log on when I think I have something of interest to say to the average person.

Now, I have a new perspective: if I wait till something happens to me that generically interesting or funny to most, I will, in fact, never write on this lovely blog. So, I am gonna write about what I know. Kids. Poop. Irritating husbands.

So here goes.

My kids have the stomach flu. Most would stop at that statement. I won’t.

Reese was a non stop cranky machine for days as she churned out one pale green poopy diaper after another. I guess if my poop was the color of PMS 5743, I’d be a tad grumpy as well. Maybe her growing spurt left little energy for digestion. Maybe she’s too young for Chipolte. Ah, the beautiful mystery of guacamole stool.

Keni followed suit, only days after with a full fledged vomit attack in my hubby’s new truck. (After a trip to Jib Jab no less.) Keni, I thought, handled her regurgitation with much more control. Even tho by night time she was delirious and dry heaving, she always wanted to make it to the trash can. (God bless her.)

A day later, Reggie was not her usual bossy self come sunset, and we knew something was amiss. She drifted off while in the living room and wasn’t even woken up when she liberally pukes a reddish chunky mess all over her comforter. (Our children regularly undress in their rooms and come out toga-ed in their comforters.) So, there I am lugging my still sleeping barfing princess off of her care bear blanket, wondering, “What in the heck did I feed this child that was red?” Later remembering watermelon and strawberries, which unfortunately did NOT maintain a fruity aroma upon exit.

Well, that nite (last nite) Reggie was like clockwork, every hour tossing her cookies.

I am not a new mother. This is not the first time I’ve had an all nite puking party. Here is my method. I shall share it with my 2 readers. I made a towel mattress. That is, 8 towels layered up upon each other, and a towel pillow. Which is a pillow layered with 4 towels folded. (give or take) I made this little area right next to my bed, so at every signall of a barfing session, I would be ready. Since Reggie NEVER wakes up through this whole procedure, (wake up and vomit) I simply slid the soiled towel out from under her, and Voila! new clean sleeping area. Well, for the next hour or so.

So at 4:30 AM I am chucking yet another towel down my laundry chute, realizing what a fun day of laundry and such lies ahead for me, I hear the all too familiar whining of my oldest. Now Alina is not a whiner by nature…ever. But when she throws up, she makes up for her sweet nature with a whole crap load of panic and crying.

I walk in to her room and was assaulted by a stench no woman should ever have to inhale. It was there that I congratulated Alina on having the most offensive smelling puke of all her sisters. (Yes, that DOES include Reese’s pale green poop.) Alina, unlike her sister that is 3 years her junior, did not make it to a trash can because, she was… tired. I find myself less than sympathetic as I paper towel up her dinner remains. (White, not red like Reggie. Go figure.)

Witness here in these stories not just the difference in vomiting technique, texture and smell, but in personality. You’ll see, the neat freak, the low maintenance, and the pathologically whiny. Three kids, one mom, one dad, one technique of child rearing, and yet so different. God bless em.

All the kids are, at the moment, basking in the healing glow of Tom and Jerry. I assure all involved that tomorrow, they will feel better. Tomorrow, they will be better. Tomorrow will be better.

Truthfully, I think I am speaking more to myself when I say that.

I am off to the coolness and quietness of the basement where I’ve frequently dissappeared to today. I am only a couple loads from finished with all my laundry. And for that, may I be truly thankful.

PS, another tip (free of charge) When your child does throw up on their blanket, do not try to skip a step by not scrapping off all the fragments of chunks on the bedding. No matter how tired you are. No matter how gross it is. Scrape it off. Vomit does not dissolve in a washer. No matter how hot the water is. Trust me.

Chuckie has left us. For his mistress… the Rocky Mountains. He and Sol and Neil boarded a plane to Denver Tuesday morning at 4 am.

So now, my house is strangely empty and quiet. Even the girls have noticed. I tend to really not think of it much as I stay pretty occupied chasing the kids. But then comes 9 pm.. bedtime for Charlie’s Angels. I start turning off the lights, turn off the TV, shut the garage door, I don’t lock anything. (We never do.)

I stay up for a while, cuz the kids will chatter the nite away if we let them. (Our house is like a perpetual sleepover.) So, I play my nintendo DS, (I am playing Hotel Dusk, Room 215) and holler out, “Get to bed!! I said…GET TO BED!” for another 45 minutes, then I notice everyone’s asleep.

Quiet can be so loud.

I head to my room, and I hear someone talking… it’s the TV? No, I turned that off. It’s Keni. Talking in her sleep. What IS she saying? I get closer…”Frothy chicken.”

Now, it’s morning. Keni and Alina are off to school, Reagan is playing frogger and Reese is having some soy milk and watching her sister master the game.

I am left with the thought of Frothy Chicken. What does it mean? Is she trying to tell me something? Does she want an innovative dessert perhaps? Maybe I should Google it.

I guess somethings are never meant to be discovered.