Moms and Volcanoes

It is 2:22 am this Sunday morning, November 6, 2011, which means just yesterday morning it would have been 3:22 am. After lying in bed for a whole 10 minutes after an episode I promise you will NEVER make it into any of my suspenseful romance novels, the writer in me wouldn't let me rest. I finished Ruth Myers' NO GAME FOR A DAME just a few hours ago and had written a review which will be posted in the next few hours. As I was sleeping and dreaming of the very well-written final shootout in Ruth's book, I was suddenly awakened by wet projectiles landing on my torso, face, and arms. I jumped out of bed waking to the realization that the projectiles hitting me weren't the bullets I was dreaming about. They were too wet and stinky. My 9 year old son had  climbed into bed with me since he wasn't feeling well. I didn't feel like kicking a kid out of bed in the wee hours of the morning, so I let him stay. Two washers full of bedding later, I am left pondering whether I should spend the rest of the night on the couch or back in my bed where I might just end up the receiving end of a human 9 year old masquerading as a vomiting volcano. I'll probably go back to my own bed and try to guide my poor sick little guy to the bathroom for his next episode, for I know there will be more. He is the seventh one in the family to come down with this particular flu bug. Joys of motherhood. No one ever told me I'd be the Pompeii of an erupting Mt. Vesuvius of vomit. I wouldn't trade my life for anything, but I might just hide under the covers next time.