I know.
you’ve probably had about all you can take of my families health reports lately. (er, sick reports)

but I have to share with you how our afternoon went on Thursday.

after doing the cleaning job for my sister, I retrieved the boys from my moms house and came home to get the key for our po box. (since, clearly my head is not screwed on tight enough these days and the po box key was not already with me!)

Jason decided to hop in the car with us for the minute and a half trip to the post office. (hey, a chance to get outta the house after a weekend in bed!)

when we got to the post office, Jason ran in and not 30 seconds later, Zach began moaning in the back seat.
I asked if he was okay.

on a side note: my oldest boy has never told me he wasn’t feeling well. he has had asthma and terminal ezcema (my own diagnosis) since he was 18 months old. when ever I have asked him how he was feeling, his response has always been, “much better”.
he could be on his tiptoes with his chest puffed out 3 inches, gasping for air.
and he would still say, “much better.”
high tolerance for pain or just sheer bull-headedness.
I don’t know.

but as he moaned violently from the back seat and I asked if he was okay.
he replied, “my stomach hurts real bad!”

this, my dears, was a signal to me.
a big, red flag.
my baby boy is not okay.

so being the irrational mom that I can sometimes prove to be, I woke Zander from his nap in his carseat, shut off the car and juggled both boys up the stairway into the post office.
hoping there would be a restroom inside.

we no sooner got into the main entrance when…….
okay, I’m gonna stop here for a moment.
now, I’m gonna warn you one last time right here and now.
if you’re sick (no pun intended) and tired of hearing my gore stories about illnesses in my family, you best make your exit now.
I’m only keeping your best interests in mind.

now, that said.

say, does anyone happen to know if throwing up in a federal building is a crime?
I mean, would it?
or would it be, if you were to throw up on someone else’s mail?

all I know is, my son left quite an impression on that nice tile floor.
and I pity whatever poor government employee had to clean it up.
we didn’t hang around to greet them.
can you blame us?

before becoming a mother, no one bothered to warn me that I would need to carry around a custodial cart with me everywhere I went.
a diaper bag armed with a tiny container of wet wipes, yes.
but how on this planet are you supposed to deal with this mornings breakfast and this afternoon’s lunch on the floor of your local post office?