It was with a lovely sense of "yay, school has resumed, we're back in schedule-action" that I dropped the boys off this morning. I came home, eager to spend a quiet morning addressing holiday cards, clean up some and just relax. Bang.
Two hours in, and I get the call: Oliver is throwing up at school. I raced over to find my little darling hugging the porcelain god, so sweetly and tidily I am proud to say. We headed home by way of CVS to get Gatorade; on the way, he threw up again, tidily again, in a bag. We got cleaned up, he had some Gatorade and toast, watched some Bob (the flipping Builder) and then suddenly declared himself "so much better."
"Ok," said I, "let's run to the market for some bananas and smoothie stuff." No sooner had we left our neighborhood than did projectile vomiting commence. My car looks like Pulp Fiction was filmed inside it.
I cleaned what I could but Ol needed to get back inside so now we're chilling in the bathroom together.