Here I lay once again, admiring my son’s resiliency at having bounced back in what seemed like mere hours from the bug that grabbed on to him the other day. I, on the other hand, am not so resilient. In fact, I am collapsed here on the bathroom floor, face stuck to the cold tile, curled up in a pathetic little ball and clad in a pair of jammies that have long since passed their expiration date. It has been two days since the Intestinal Explosion Heard Round the World, but I am still experiencing thunderous aftershocks, and have found it far easier to lay here in my dismal puddle than to make the trip from the bed to the pot over and over. Eating even the smallest nibble of food seems to set in motion a scenario that I have lovingly envisioned as a jet powered log ride through my digestive tract, so I gave up after the first twenty-four hours. This is also a reason for the floor dwelling, as the trek back and forth from bed to bathroom was using the very few calories my body had left to cling to.

            Derek was surprisingly helpful the first night, and set off in expert husband/father mode, coming home early from work on Friday to wrangle the children from their various locations. He even managed to cook dinner! Okay, so it was scrambled eggs and toast, but the kids ate it, and he was extremely proud, so it worked for me. Not that I was even aware of any of this until after the fact, as I was all but glued to a toilet seat the whole evening. Saturday, when we were woken up by the children at a time in which God himself would hit the snooze, and when I started getting the predictable grunt and nudge with his elbow at which point I usually sigh and head off to start the children's day half conscious as he sleeps in, I attempted to explain that I was still sick and the children couldn't be anywhere near me, but made it halfway through the sentence when I was overcome once more with the evil demon that had a hold of my lower half, and ran from the room.

            By Saturday night, I was getting near hourly interruptions by my increasingly irritated and frantic husband, who was clearly trying to guilt me into becoming healthy. If there had been even an ounce of strength in my body I would have used it to throw heavy objects at him, but sadly all I could do was moan and beg. I am not sure which annoyance was more unrelenting; the plague that had infested my body, or the whiny, helpless beast that was my husband. It's a tossup.

            So this morning, when the kids made their early morning debut at our bedside, I made the tragic mistake of telling an impossibly grumpy heap- that claimed to be my husband, that I was feeling a little better and would get the kids their breakfast. I was mid-pour with the milk for Abby's cereal when my words came back to punish me in a big way, and ran desperately to the half-bath by the laundry room. I was overcome by the pungent aroma of the potpourri I keep stashed in there just in case a guest would happen to wander in there and find us cliché-less, and also by the vast difference in size compared to our master bathroom, feeling terribly claustrophobic, and longing for the tile that I had come to know and love over the last 48 hours.

            With tiny fingers poking under the bathroom door, giggling and demanding that I open up, I begged Abby to go get her father to help them finish their breakfast. Once I heard his sleepy grumblings pass by, and I made my body promise to at the very least make the journey upstairs in one piece, I darted past my brood, amidst the shouts from my husband saying "You'll be right back though, right?!", and settled back into the groove I had worn into the floor in my beloved bathroom. Over the next few hours, with my ear pressed to the ground, I heard the following phrases, spoken by various members of my darling clan.

            "Daddy you are funner than mommy!"

            "I know Mommy doesn't let you have chocolate before lunch, but mommy isn't here is she?"

            "When does Mommy get back from her vacation, Daddy?"

            Yes. Vacation. That's what I am doing. Imagine the advertising for such a trip. "How would YOU like to take a long, luxurious trip to Rio De Ja Crapio!?"  Not exactly a bestseller, I am assuming.

            If I find out that Derek actually told our children that I was on a vacation of some sort, revenge will be sought. In fact, if I were physically able to lift my body up, I would lick his toothbrush...

            The next morning, I am intestinally intact, and feeling as if I have once again adopted a human form. Derek hears this and leaves a good half-hour early for work, as the office is now the only place he is free of the turmoil that is a Mommy-less house. I actually feel bad for the poor guy, but his incessant guilt tripping, and the under-the-breath complaining has guaranteed that the next time he gets so much as a sniffle, it is so very much, ON.

             Feeling better, but not exactly up to decking myself out for the trip to school, I am clad in sweats that are hanging loosely on my hips, as apparently I had lost a considerable amount of weight over the course of those three dreadful days. My hair is one slight step above dripping wet, and tucked into a ponytail. I figured that after three days of stewing in my own sweat and bathroom floor gunk that I would brave the kid-interrupted shower rather than inflicting my powerful stench on others. Although the idea of become a super-villain whose power is emitting paralyzing rays of stink to incapacitate the Justice League, should they attempt to foil my plans, is tempting. You know, I couldn't pull it off. Not committed enough to follow through with my evil plans. I would get stuck, like, hiring henchmen or something, or perhaps on designing the required spandex bad guy suit, making it one that is both flattering, and slimming. Although, I would bet that a well draped cape would be very forgiving. Maybe I could line it with Spanx.

             See? I would never focus long enough to pull it off.

            The ride to school was delightfully mellow, and the kids seemed downright grateful to have me back as opposed to the Daddy-led chaos of the last few days. There was no battle over the radio station, no booger flinging, and no screams as a policeman walks by. It was a perfect morning in our world. Even the baggie of spilt Cheerio's wasn't enough to set off the normal insanity that is our commute. No, this morning, all was serene.

            You'd think that would have been the first sign that my day was about to go to shit. I never learn.

             After depositing Ollie in his classroom, I was slinking back to the van and convincing myself that going home and taking a nap would not be wasting time, but instead should be considered a mandatory event for a recovering sick person. Just as I tugged my sweats up for the umpteenth time and was reaching for the car door, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and jumped clear out of my skin.

            I turned to face the Tapper and was annoyed to see one of the most obnoxious of the Pre-Schooler Moms, Natalie Brimawich. Every time I see her, that sound you hear in movies when the bad guy appears plays in my head. You know, the dun, dun DUUUUUN, sound? Yeah. Natalie is the head of the planning committee for Oliver's class. I am still confused as to why three and four year olds need a planning committee, but I find it safer not to ask such questions. Natalie is so perfectly coifed, at all times, that I have a theory that she has a hair and makeup team follow her around all day, for should a single strand become frizzy or a fleck of mascara smudge, then the world would fly right off its Axis. Her son, Nicholas, is one of those real Italian loafer-wearing lads, and a tiny wisp of a boy who knows that even at his own birthday party it will not be about him, but attention shall be focused upon the organizer of the festivities. She demands it. The rest of us peasants are here to adore her and praise her impressive domestic goddess skills. Let me put Natalie this way. Were she and Martha Stewart to get into a smack down, poor Martha wouldn't make it out in one piece.

            As I stood there, pulling at my drooping sweats and smoothing back my still very damp hair, I felt a complete mess in the presence of her perfectly tailored lavender dress, and matching four inch pumps.

            "Hi there, Ellie!" She says in an unnaturally perky tone that also drips with superiority, "I heard you weren't feeling well! I hope you are all better now, yes?"

            "Um, yeah, thanks."  I stammer out, "Uh, how did you know I was sick?"

            "Oh, well," and as she says that she leans forward, daintily touching my forearm, and I am engulfed in a tiny, yet powerful cloud of her insanely expensive perfume. She lowers her voice as if we are about to share some fantastic secret with each other. "Karen Denton says she saw you have just the most dreadful, um, episode at the mall last week."

            My eyes widen, my mouth drops, and I can feel my cheeks blushing the most insane shade of crimson ever spotted by human eyes.

            "She was waiting in line while you were in the bathroom, and said that it sounded terribly unpleasant!"

            I am looking around to see if a kindly sniper might be hiding nearby and would be up for doing me a favor. Not sure if I would have him take out me or Natalie...

            "That must have been very embarrassing," she unfathomably said in a tone lightly tinged with false sympathy, "But it is wonderful to see you are feeling better now!"

            She pulls away, our fantastic secret moment, thankfully over, and with a look of explicit satisfaction plastered on her perfectly detailed face, continued speaking, and things just got worse from there.

            "So, do you want to carpool with some of the other mothers to my house for the meeting, or would you just like to follow us out there?"

            My mind races, filtering through hundreds of flyers received from the school at various points over the last few weeks, until the slot machine that is my panic comes to a complete and hateful stop on the meeting in question. Our monthly parent meeting in which we get together, always at Natalie's house, to supposedly discuss things like fundraisers and which mom will take what week to be Class Mom with duties involving snack bringing, field trip chaperoning, and so on. What really happens is Natalie has those things assigned in advance, to we, her unwitting minions, and instead the women sit around talking about how fabulous they all are-Natalie being declared the most fabulous of all, of course– drinking mimosas, and imported coffee, and feasting on catered brunch cuisine. Yes, she actually caters these god-forsaken meetings from hell.

            "Well?"  She persists, knowing full well I have forgotten this cursed event, and that I have been to her house literally dozens of times for the various other soul-sucking impositions she insists on throwing.

            Bucking up, deciding to not let her destroy the entirety of my day before I have even had a cup of coffee, I straighten up, and set my phasers on stun.

            "I'll meet you there."  I say cooly, "I know the way very well, thank you."

            "Wonderful, I'll make sure to have a seat reserved just for you." She smirks, and turns to walk away.

            Just as I am about to exhale the air I have been holding in since the beginning of this hellacious exchange, she turns and pulls a piece of paper out of her purse, and holds it to me.

            "Here are the directions to my home,” she informs, "Just in case you get lost."

            I step forward, forming a biting response, but as I do, I make a catastrophic error in letting go of my sweats to reach for the mocking directions.

            And there, on the curb in front of my sons’ over-priced private school, in front of the most vile woman I have ever had the misfortune of meeting and in front of God himself, who has obviously turned his back on me....

            My pants fell down.

            Well, that's just fucking perfect.