I won't tell you anything about it, because the details are too hideously disgusting for anyone to want to hear them. All I will say is, the barfing flu hit our household on Saturday night, and if you've never tended a two-year-old who is throwing up every fifteen minutes for eight straight overnight hours, get down on your knees and thank whatever god you believe in. Twenty-four hours, ten million loads of laundry, and a grape Popsicle later, the toddler seems to be on the mend. I'm not sure how long it will take for Christopher and me to recover, however, from our post-traumatic flashbacks of the carnage.
Another parenting rite of passage, down.