Something wicked this way stays.

We are officially well into Day 7 of our flu extravaganza -- and with two sickies in diapers, let me tell you, it is an extravaganza. Even the dog has thrown up.
As the mother of four boys, I consider myself somewhat hardened, and I really thought I'd seen it all. But in the span of five minutes today, I witnessed something horrific -- more than any one person should have to see. I may seek counseling.
Harry hurled up a peanut butter & jam sandwich, which, I know I shouldn't have given to him but he requested it and he's been sick for so many days I was worried, so I caved in and let him eat it despite my reservations. He threw up, and then, after I removed his clothing and blankets and some strategically placed towels, I ran upstairs to throw everything in the washer (sterilize! sterilize!) only to find Cooper waking up from his nap with THE MOST DISGUSTING DIAPER LOAD EVER. Ever.
I shudder to think of it, and can only say that I felt like Aunt Ada Doom in Cold Comfort Farm -- traumatized. I held my breath and cleaned up, threw Cooper's blankets in with the rest of the wash, and stumbled, dazed, back downstairs to report that "I saw something nasty in the nursery!!"
My stamina is waning, I'm ready to burn sage throughout the house, and yesterday I started to sound like Nurse Ratched, remarking coldly to my 3-year-old, "Try to hit the towel."
Since it's Easter weekend, I'm wondering if the local church might possess an extra store of holy water, and, if so, could it be administered by a non-Catholic? Nevermind, if this keeps up for much longer, I may need to call in the Greeks, they're like the Navy Seals of the religious world to me. Exorcism for the children, blessing of the house, ouzo for me, all in one fell swoop.
That's right, that's right -- stay over there by the tub, Damien.