I hate being sick. I hate the fact that I'm bonding with the porcelain goddess of all that is disgusting. But most importantly, I hate being sick with kids. They still want to be fed and changed even though I feel like a pile of what they more than likely have created in their diaper. Today is no exception in that I'm experiencing the joys of a mild case of what I believe to be food poisoning brought on by a love affair that I had with three schatty pieces of pizza. For some odd reason, Gun-Gun has also decided it would be a great day to start his own colon cleansing and has produced two of the nastiest, stinky diapers I've changed in awhile. I know this for a fact because I have been a diaper changing expert for over eight years. I have records in five states, three countries and one province, but I don't want to brag.

My day of pity all began last night when I started having the sulfphur-eggy smelling burps that are normally indicative that your stomach is pissed off over something you ate. I went to bed, crossing my fingers that I would wake up minus the toxic waste emanating from my gut. But alas, the bell tolled at 3AM and I awoke to the beautiful sounds of a rumbling tummy, who was actively working to vacate my lower region of all that was previously good. I'll save you the gory details, but I think you get the idea.

I gimped myself out of bed when hubby left for work, and parked my worn out body on the couch. Hubby had already let Kimber the mutt in, and she was passed out on her back in front of the fireplace. It could have been scene from a Thomas Kincade portrait but then I saw that Gun-Gun had snotsicles and runny eyes, and I realized that he had also decided to get sick. I guess he doesn't know the rule that there is only to be one miserable person at a time in our house. I turned the babysitter on (TV, duh) and proceeded to encourage Gun-Gun to rot his brain with an episode of Sponge Bob while I tried to close my eyes and imagine that I could once again trust my farts.

As I drifted in and out of miserableness (yeah, I know that’s not a word), I detected an odor that I falsely accused Gun-Gun of creating. After a quick diaper check revealed a semi-clean butt, I chalked it up to something that must have slipped out of me - getting old sucks. I again closed my eyes and tried to relax only to have that same smell creep back up into my nostrils. By this time, C-dub and Taterbug had joined me in the living room and I promptly placed the blame on them. Both kiddos denied it and passed the blame onto Gun-Gun and I informed them that he was just an innocent victim in this game of stench.

It was at that time did I notice Kimber stretching, her fluffy head pushed into the carpet, while her four paws were outward as if reaching for opposite ends of the room. Taterbug was first to associate the relaxation with the smell, “Oh my gosh, it's dog farts! That's what smells! She's super relaxed, Momma!" Now I understand why we have never had inside animals (not counting the kids)...The raunchy smell coming from that dog was a million times worse what my body could have ever created. From my couch throne, I instructed my servants (a.k.a. children) to toss the heathen outside so that she could pollute the barnyard rather than our living room. But Kimber wasn't moving and she knew that I was too weak (and lazy) to get off my duff and drag her outside. Plus, I knew that I would lose my organic vacuum cleaner if she was gone. It's all about the sacrifices...

So here I lie, surrounded by half-dressed children and a dog with a rectum from Hell. It’s going to be a long day but I have plenty of Febreze and toilet paper. Life is good.