Knock Knock. Who's There? Vomit.

Just a few days ago I was bragging to someone about how neither of my girls had really ever had the stomach flu. They've each experienced random puking episodes, but not the prolonged vomiting hell that the stomach flu usually entails. Well, someone clearly was listening and decided to knock me off my cocky little boasting box by nailing my eldest daughter big-time.

Last night Emma started complaining that she wasn't feeling well after we put her to bed. Chris and I both thought she was lying because a) she'd been acting fine all day, and b) she frequently makes up mysterious ailments after 8pm as a way of stalling bedtime. So we were like, "Nice try, go to sleep, remember 'The Boy Who Cried Wolf,' you are the boy, we've got your number, stop playing games, lights off, night-night."

That wasn't the end of it, of course...which did not surprise us and should not surprise you if you've ever in your life met Emma. But her crying seemed of a different nature than normal, so I asked Chris to go back in and make sure she was faking. From the living room I heard him open the door, begin speaking sternly, and then emit a series of non-verbal, high-pitched, bird-like sounds of distress that basically translated to, "Panic! Panic! My daughter just spit vomit in my face!"

And so it began. Poor Em, she was such a good sport about it all. After she'd finished round #1 of puking, Chris cleaned up her bed while I threw Em in the bath. As I sponged her off, I tried to distract her with songs and soothing words. Then she sighed and said without a trace of sarcasm, "Wow, throwing up really isn't very fun. Well, at least you believe me now."

Ouch. Knife to heart, you have found your target.

Over the next couple of hours Em had several more upchuck episodes before finally falling asleep. Chris and I washed three layers of skin off our hands, did two loads of laundry, sprayed the entire house with Febreez and Lysol Disinfectant, and dozed off with our ears open and fingers crossed.

Fast forward to the morning. I wake up to Emma singing happily in her room, miraculously cured. After three pieces of toast, two impromptu dance recitals, a mad game of let's-tear-up-an-entire-box-of-Kleenex-all-over-the-couch, and approximately two tons of strawberries, she's still going strong. (Forgive the digression, but have I ever mentioned that both my girls love strawberries? I mean, they eat them like it is their job. Literally. It's as if some mysterious produce pusher approached them and offered the eldest her weight in Disney movies and the youngest a lifetime supply of Dora episodes if they could hit a combined strawberry-eating quota of 9,000 a day.)

So. Hopefully whatever evil germs took over Emma's digestive system last night have flown the coop. But I'm still being cautious and do not intend to gloat in any way should her recovery in fact be as speedy as it appears. I have learned my lesson. Be warned, the Irony Gods are always listening.