The Puke Runneth Over.

You would think that, being the pregnant one in the house, any vomit that needs to be projected in this house might come from me. You would be sadly mistaken, my friend.

In point of fact, I am feeling quite well on the digestive front. A little ginger ale here and there to settle brief flirtations with stomach upset, and I've been good to go. Not so much the case with... well, nearly every creature in the house today.

First the dog threw up on the floor directly in front of the television in full view of the children. And this was no ordinary puke - oh, no. This was a rancid, steaming, fluorescent puddle of concrete-melting sick that made the eyes water and immediately spawned several minutes of reflexive gagging.

It took half a roll of paper towels and most of a bottle of carpet cleaner (and several additional years added onto my therapy tab) but I finally got it cleaned up without actually sicking up, myself. All the while, of course, the boys are pointing and shrieking and generally convinced that the dog is somehow possessed of the devil and just waiting to spew acid venom all over them.

Finally, I was able to compose myself enough to whip up some lunch for the kids. Now, Toby had a bout of diarrhea last night that was... impressive. We chalked it up to the fact that the little moocher had helped himself to a couple of donuts for breakfast yesterday, but by this morning he was feeling lethargic and snuggly and generally Not. Good.

But he seemed to have a healthy appetite and ate a piece of toast and some apple slices for breakfast without event. I was lulled into a false sense of security. I gave him his lunch.

And before he had eaten a single bite, he threw up all over the plate and the kitchen table and his jammies and my remaining threads of sanity.

I threw him into the tub, realized we were late for preschool, washed him up, bundled him into warm clothes, threw on Jack's shoes and ran out the door to get Jack to school before he, too, started leaking fluids.

Jack assured me he was feeling fine, and I cannot express my relief as I dropped him off at his class and watched him run happily away to spend the afternoon coloring and singing. And possibly becoming the typhoid Mary of the preschool set, but really, I swear he said he felt fine (and no temp. I checked.)

I stopped at the store to grab toddler electrolyte solution and various upset-tummy remedies, then headed for home. Toby and I walked into the kitchen to find ... one of the cats had thrown up all over the kitchen counter. Which is, obviously, exactly how I wanted to continue my day.

If anyone or anything else in this house feels the need to sick up, if they could just wait until after, say, 6:30 so that T can take over scrubbing up the mess? That would be just lovely, thanks.