8 P.M.

I am quite enjoying my night, I tell you.  It's cool enough outside that I don't have the a/c on, just the ceiling fan and the back door open.  Gentle but steady rain is falling.  I'm watching Criminal Minds.

I'm alone.

I'm an introvert, and solitude is essential.  With school ending tomorrow just before noon, it's going to be a very long time before I can find any kind of solitude outside of the crowded anonymity of the grocery store.

So I was cherishing it.

Small Fry's fever broke, and she's been slightly subdued, but not lethargic like she was yesterday.  She didn't go to school today, but she did go to VBS tonight.

And that's when the phone rang, just as a new episode of CM was starting.

It's Hubby.  "Where are you?"

"In the den, watching Criminal Minds."

"Oh, good.  I'm bringing home a sick kid."

Crap.

"Which one?"

"Large Fry."

"What happened?"

"She's been lethargic.  And they said she threw up a couple times."

Double crap.

I love my kids, but I hate vomit, and being around anyone engaged in that particular activity tends to trigger my own overly-sensitive gag reflex.

And poor Large Fry...she inherited a queasy gizzard, and is the one who will throw up, er, ad nauseum, even when the other two don't, and they all have the same bug.  Her gyro is also pretty sensitive, so she's really sensitive to motion as well.  (Why, yes, we keep Dramamine or Bonine in the van at all times.)

Large kinda moped into the house, and I sent her upstairs to change into her jammies.  When she bent over the toilet, I realized this wasn't going to be done any time soon.  Change of plans.  Back to the den, rather than sending her to bed, so I'm not going up two floors and back down every time the icks attack.

So far, Medium says she feels fine.

I hope.

Either way, let's get it out of the way before the end of the week, when we leave on vacation.

I'm also hoping that Large's tummy has settled.  She woke up out of a sound sleep twice because her stomach heaved.

My poor girl.