I thought we had finally beaten back the plague. We'd gone more than 24 hours without anyone throwing up. We'd been forcing the kids to wash their hands every five minutes. We'd been using copious amounts of hand sanitizer. I thought life was returning to normal, whatever that is.
I thought wrong.
At about 9:00 last night, I was in the office catching up on blogs, my sister was in the living room, and B was on the back porch. The kids were all tucked into bed and sound asleep. Peace reigned.
And then my sister yelled from the living room that someone in the girls' room was throwing up. It was Lily, and it was a disgusting mess. I'll spare everyone the details.
I felt awful, both because Lily was sick and because she had told me her stomach hurt before she went to bed. I patted her on the back and tucked her in, ignoring her complaints because she's been claiming that her stomach hurt all week. She's been desperate to be sick like Ella so she could lie on the sofa and watch cartoons and drink ginger ale. I figured her complaints last night were more of the same. Boy was I wrong.
Lily ended up sleeping on a pallet on the floor in our bathroom, just in case she threw up again, which she didn't. She came out this morning looking rather bewildered. It turns out she has no memory of last night's events, which is pretty funny.
So now she's on the sofa, watching SpongeBob and drinking Gatorade, and I'm back to washing a mountain of sheets and towels.