(Warning: Contains vomit scene and, possibly, too much information.)
Saturday was one of those nice, leisurely days where we bundled up the boy and went off meandering around town — Garrison Keillor's bookstore for Christmas presents, Nina's for a quick coffee, a used bookstore on St. Clair that's devoted to gardening and plants, an eco-gardening store where Steve stopped in to look at hydroponic growing systems, in case I want to get him something along those lines for Christmas. He's already turned a corner of our basement into a little growing lab, starting up plants and tree-lets with seeds he collects when we're out on walks. That night, we grilled burgers for dinner, then put Daniel to bed and popped in a DVD.
Somewhere between dinner and DVD, I started to get that warning feeling in my tummy, and by the time the movie was over, I was barfing in the toilet. (Well, the first time, I didn't actually make it to the toilet, so Steve ended up having to clean out the tub — poor, sweet saint of a guy. "I had to do this for my mom once," he told me later.) At once point during the night, as I heaved over the toilet seat, holding back my hair, I thought to myself, "I never had morning sickness. Is this what it would have been like? Is this karma, making up for it?" More likely, I assumed, it was something I ate.
Or maybe not. This morning, I found out that a friend of mine whom I saw last week had the exact same kind of weekend. Sick on Saturday night, slept all day Sunday, still pretty wiped out today. Was it a virus? None of our children or spouses got it, and I pray they don't.