Earlier this week, Hubby and I finally succumbed to the flu bug that had infiltrated our household last weekend. Since the munchkins had already partaken amongst this lovely round of "da boffs," they were perfectly healthy and raring to go to school. I managed to suck it up for 10 minutes in order to drop off the older two and then hurry back home to protect my place as queen of the latrine. Hubby also stayed home from work and he and I spent our day either in the bed or my favorite, the couch. For some reason, the coolness of the leather made my nausea swells a little easier to handle.

The hardest part of the day wasn't the nausea and it wasn't the feeling of not being able to trust your own farts - it was the fact that Gunny felt perfectly healthy. Even on a normal day, I'm typically exhausted after playing, chasing, and tormenting the little fellow. You'd think that a set of sick parents would still be able to keep up with the little hellion - well, Gunny sensed our weakness and took full advantage in reminding us why he'd be an only child if I would have had him first.

Because he was feeling better, Gun-Gun was very hungry - in fact, he was hungry all day long. As I lay moaning on the couch and praying to the porcelain goddess, he kept bringing me a variety of different stinky snacks he wanted to have opened up. Crackers, bananas, cookies, cheese, Popsicles, and I think at one point, even a cold Pepsi - which received a firm denial. He'd eat and then offer me some, usually in a pre-chewed form or at least pre-licked. When he was done eating, I could hear him throwing his wrapper in the sink, which was absolutely fine because at least there was one universal place for his trash. I could also hear him crunching up paper and talking softly, which I ignored as he sounded happy and not too naughty (which obviously was a mistake because a quiet Gunny is a troubled Gunny).

In and out of my comatose state on the couch, I revolved the TV from Noggin to Nickolodeon, with the occasional Cartoon Network inter dispersed for his viewing pleasure. Every so often I'd hear the occasional theme song to "Go Diego Go!" or "Yo Gabba Gabba" emit from his little lips, and I'd close my eyes for just a bit longer knowing that he was safe, fed and happy. I was even the benefactor of a spit bath during "Yo Gabba Gabba" as their guest singer was a rap star who taught the kids how to rap and do beatboxing. What a great thing to teach a two year old who already likes to spit just for recreational fun.

Towards the end of the day, Hubby arose from the bedroom dungeon and announced that he was feeling better and had unleashed his tether from the toilet. As he walked through the kitchen, surveying the damage done by a rambunctious Gun-Gun, he noticed a pile of crumpled wrapping paper underneath the kitchen table. Just adjacent to the pile lay a stack of presents, previously wrapped during one of my Christmas frenzies.

Hubby: Gunny! What the heck did you do? Why'd you open the presents?
Gun-Gun: Oh! Sawree bout dat Daddeee. I open dah up dah merry cwistmas!
Hubby: But it's not Christmas yet. You can't touch those, dude.
Gun-Gun: Giving his best forelorn look... I'm weally sawree I open dah up dah pwesents. I wuv you Daddeee. He does know how to deflect anger and cause spontaneous hugging and kissing sessions with his Daddeee. His power is impressive.

So yes, I should have paid better attention when I heard the crumpling papers and quiet whispering. And maybe, just maybe, I should have gotten my sour butt and stomach off the couch to investigate his wicked ways. However, in my own defense, I thought I had done well enough by at least putting up the sharp instruments and prescription medications. Who would have thought the Christmas presents would have been the victim of a Christmas Monster right in my own living room?