Suckimus Maximus

My kids have a stomach virus. Again. And my cat is dying.

Thurman is my favorite cat of the three we've got roaming around. You know, Thurman, the weak-stomached food stealer, the one I named after Thurman Merman from the movie Bad Santa? He's old. The shelter we adopted him from estimated him to be one age and the vet estimated him to be another, but he's anywhere from eleven to fifteen. Recently he started losing a ton of weight despite eating and pooping normally (because I'm intimately familiar with the contents of that litter box, y'all). So we took him to the vet, who proclaimed that everything looked normal and that he was just really old and dropping weight because that's what old animals do. That was a few weeks ago, but he's gone downhill quickly. He's having trouble getting around on his thin, rickety legs now, and he's barely eating or drinking even when we try and feed it to him. He just walks a few feet and then painfully resettles his jutting bones for a nap before he walks any further. And yesterday, he peed while he was laying on the kitchen floor. I can't watch him go through this any more, so if he lives through tonight, we're having him put to sleep tomorrow. At this point it's the humane thing to do. But it sucks major ass because I love that cat like a lot, and he follows me around like a dog and is almost always in my line of vision. It's going to hurt when he's not there any more. I remember that feeling from the awfulness we went through with our dog Andy - I was so keenly aware of his absence. The space he left followed me, just like he had, and I dread feeling that way about Thurman.

I love him, though, and I don't want him to just suffer like this until he finally dies. Because either way, the same result is inevitable, and I'd rather speed it along for his sake.

On top of that, Curtis has had to work aaaaaaallllll weekend. The night shift. And at about two o'clock this morning, Coby - who had fallen asleep on the couch - came into my bedroom whispering, "Mom? I barfed on the couch."

I jerked awake. Which of course jerked the baby awake. He started crying.

"I have to pooooop!" Coby whined.

"Then go! Go! Go!" I said, frantically ushering him toward the bathroom. At which point Corbin crawled straight off the edge of the bed. I scooped him up, but then remembered the barf in the living room, so I put him back down which really pissed him off. I dashed into the living room, cleaned up the couch, hurriedly threw the blankets and pillow into the washing machine, washed my hands, and picked up Corbin again.

Running into the bathroom, I find Coby, standing in a puddle of liquid crap. And before I can even say anything, I feel a hot cascade down my back and realize the baby has thrown up on me. And the wall. And the floor.

"Seriously?!" I shrieked into the cosmos, because OMGWTF!!!!

So I had to clean everybody up. Everybody cried. All the ruckus woke Colin and Cameron, who whined because, well, it was the middle of the night.

And then, after I foolishly tucked Coby into my bed so I could keep an eye on him, he puked on my pillow. And then after that, a fart turned out to be more, so there went the sheets. For the rest of the night, I lay on a scratchy towel, in a state of half-wakefulness between Coby and Corbin, ready to leap to action at any noise that sounded remotely juicy.

Despite my best efforts, we've had enough blowouts (from both ends!) to keep my washer and dryer running constantly since I first started laundry at 2 a.m. Thank the Lord I'm lucky enough to have this modern convenience right here in my own home. And no, I promise that's not sarcasm - I'm just trying to look at the bright side, to realize that despite everything, I have a lot to be grateful for in this situation.

So that brings us to now. Two of my household down. I'm hoping, praying, begging that none of the rest of us fall victim to it like last time, but I'm thinking that's pretty naive. I mean, this is the kind of stuff that always spreads like wildfire no matter how many antibacterial products you slather everybody and every surface with. I can smell my own pits and I think I may have a teeny patch of someone's vomit crusted in my hair. My sink is full of dirty dishes. I have a headache and sick children to deal with - including a sick baby who cries if I'm not holding him. And Curtis is still sleeping.

And then Thurman.

And because all that isn't enough, Colin has learned to whistle, and he's just so proud of himself that he goes around whistling in.cess.ant.ly. Someone may need to commit me to a mental institution.

Only don't do it until after nine o'clock tonight because The Walking Dead is going to be on. Thank goodness.