The norovirus made its way into our house last week, making its presence known with unmistakable authority.

After a hearty dinner of chicken nuggets and spaghetti on Thursday night, Jen helped Daphne shower and get ready for bed. From the bathroom I heard a, “Daph? Are you okay? Daph? Are you–OHHH! OHHH! Oh no…” I stood up to see what was happening and found that Daphne had retched a Jackson Pollo-ck onto the bathroom floor. Jen was bravely cupping her hand under Daphne’s mouth whilst trying to move her toward the toilet, but as soon I walked through the door Daphne turned to look at me and instantly barfed another pumpkin-colored spray of partially processed nugget in my direction.

Here is where the the parental grapple begins. The “oh no, my child is sick. I need to go help her” sentiment grapples with the “it smells like a microwaved abattoir in here and if I inhale another noseful of vomit stink I’m going to add my own to the frappé.”

Fortunately my wife knows me well enough to know that it was not a shirking of parental duty when I choked, “I…I have to go…” before retreating into the living room to take breaths that were devoid of stomach stink.

See, I have an exceptionally sensitive sense of smell. Always have. Even now, almost 10 years later, I have to wipe Daphne’s butt with a shirt over my nose.

Unfortunately, this was not the last of the vomit. Daph was sick on repeat the whole night and Jen stayed with her throughout, ensuring that Daphne threw up (mostly) into the Yuck Bucket.

As a result of that close proximity, Jen was the next one to start feeling ill on Saturday night. She spent Saturday night throwing up, and the majority of Sunday resting in bed. Fortunately she’s feeling much better today.

As for me, I’ve had some minor stomach woes, but have not (as of yet) been completely sidelined by the virus. Gotta tell you, though… I’m not feeling great at the moment.

Here’s hoping.

j.s.