Mother of boys

I got sick this week.

This is notable for one reason:

It was an “All exits, no waiting” scenario.

And since there’s only one toilet and the exits are on opposite ends of me, I RUINED the bathroom.

First time this ever happened to me.

My guess is that I either caught the norovirus or I got food poisoning.

From sushi.

How awful is that?

I can’t even look at a slice of sake without feeling sick to my stomach.

The good news is I survived and I’m back at work.

The bad news is that it feels like I’ve been hit by a train.

Body aches up the wazoo. . .

Or OUT the wazoo, as it is in my case.

The worst part of it all, besides ACTUALLY being sick, is that I had an audience.

Round one: My youngest son watched me clean the walls in the bathroom and then TOLD ALL HIS FRIENDS ABOUT IT. He has also taken to calling me “Poopy McPooperson.”  So there’s that.

Round two: My oldest son watched me throw up in a garbage can and proceeded to tell me that it was happening to me because I wouldn’t buy him a $45,000 sports car.

That’s the kind of sympathy you get when you’re the mother of boys.

Toilets and Love

My sister tagged me in a Facebook post calling me “the eternal love optimist.”

Along with that sentiment came her “two cents” on the topic.

diarrheaLove is the best feeling.

But finding a toilet when you have diarrhea is better.

Hmmmm.

Perhaps in the moment.

I remember one time my ex-husband had the trots and we were LITERALLY A BLOCK from our house when he made me pull over so he could use the bathroom at McDonalds.

A BLOCK!

I’m sure at that time I held little value for him where as the toilet was a thing of beauty.

If I remember correctly, I think I was laughing a little bit at his plight.

Or at least trying not to laugh and failing miserably.

Let’s face it, the superiority of love over toilets doesn’t need to be proven.

It’s just a fact.

Toilets can’t love you back.

They can’t keep you warm in bed.

And they can’t hug you when you’re feeling down.

They certainly can’t give you an orgasm.

At best they can make you feel all tingly inside, but that’s just a temporary side effect of poor blood circulation.

The point to my sister’s post (and I think this is key to the difference between us) is that I am an optimist and expect love to fall in my lap at some point in the future whereas my sister is a pessimist and has found other ways to keep herself happy.

I suppose when you’re a mobile nurse driving from home to home in the Nevada mountains, finding a toilet could feel similar to falling in love.

It could.

But it’s not.

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