Worst. Holiday. Ever.

Wednesday afternoon started out great - Tim had the next two days off and we had 5 racks of ribs in the fridge ready to cook, a huge pot of potatoes boiling on the stove (so the potato salad could sit over night and absorb the yummy juices), and a huge collection of fireworks just dying to explode piled on the dining room table. Everyone (by which I mean both sets of grandparents and my sister and her hubby) was primed to come over to eat and light things on fire the next day. I was stoked. Tim was stoked. The kids were stoked.

Except the younger boy. He'd been having, shall we say, rear end issues since lunch. (Nothing quite so awesome as thinking you've just had a fantastic raspberry blown at you only to turn around and see a big yellowy-brown puddle on the floor by the baby.) So, okay, he wasn't doing fabulously. But he'd be asleep during the fireworks anyway and he was still in good spirits. I bathed him, changed him, bleached the floor. It was all good.

To celebrate, as the Sleepys do, we had tacos for dinner. (Yes, tacos are a celebratory food. Least round these parts they are. We do love tacos.)

The baby had another blowout, so I bathed him and changed him again and put him to bed. Tim and the elder boy went downstairs to play XBox for a bit. And then they came stampeding back up the stairs. The basement door flew open, revealing Tim holding an unhappy elder boy. He looked at me. Groaned. And then vomited all over Tim and my freshly bleached kitchen floor. Tim set him down. He threw up again. Tim picked him up and ran with him to the bathroom, dribbling vomit along the way. He missed the toilet and hit the bath mats. Then finally hit the toilet.

Tim held the boy. I started cleaning the upchuck, all the while trying not to add to it myself. (Honestly, it's a terrible thing when both parents are sympathetic vomiters. I'm somewhat less so than Tim. But neither of us is great at it.)

We bathed and changed the elder boy and tucked him in bed with a stock pot nearby and firm instructions to aim for the pot and carry it with him toward the potty.

He threw up all over the bed.

I started more laundry. Changed the bed. Changed the boy. Changed myself.

Lather, rinse, repeat until at 11 the throw up tapered off and I went to bed, leaving Tim in charge of the boy dozing on the couch.

I woke at 2 to the sound of retching. I stumbled into our bathroom to see Tim hanging over the toilet. "It's just me" he groaned. I stumbled back to bed. He repeated this every hour until dawn.

We called and cancelled the 4th.

Instead, I changed liquid poo, mopped up vomit, and served gatorade to three very unhappy boys all day. Woohoo. Go USA. Really I was much more wanting freedom along the lines of Mel Gibson in Braveheart.

By Friday, the elder boy was mostly recovered and fairly unhappy with me for not letting him eat things other than saltines and plain toast. Tim was still not keeping anything other than liquids down. The baby was developing a fantastic case of diaper rash, though his output was firming up somewhat. We shot off the fireworks that night anyway.

Saturday the elder boy was back to his bouncy self. Tim was able to eat bland food. The baby was unhappy with all bland food choices, still not quite back to his normal output, and cranky. I was ready to get out of the house.

Today, everyone seems to be back to fighting form, though Tim is tired and frustrated that at nearly 40 he's not bouncing back quite as quickly as the 5 year old.

I'm just grateful I didn't get it (knock wood.)

We can do without another "holiday" like that for the rest of our lives, thankyouverymuch.