Quarantine

For the past twenty seven days, K has had a horrible wracking cough which, it turns out, is walking pneumonia.

He's already taken two rounds of antibiotics and he's still coughing.

The Rooster has been coughing for fourteen days and finally started antibiotics yesterday.

At one a.m. last night, The Mayor covered himself, his bed, his father and the bathroom in vomit and then continued to dry heave all night long.

This morning, The Mayor asked for a glass of milk.

[Roll Friday the 13th Music: Ree Ree Ree...]

With a great feeling of certain doom, I gave him milk.

The Rooster was sitting on K's lap at the breakfast table when The Mayor clutched his stomach and threw up all over the two of them and the dining room floor.

With sighs of resignation, K and I began cleaning up the mess.

I was bent over the sink wringing out a vomit filled towel and K was on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor when our town tornado siren started wailing.

Seriously?

Uncle. Enough already. I surrender!

[Mental note: shop for hazmat suit ASAP.]