Jack, following yet another frantic dash to the bathroom: Mom, I think I have that poop-itis again.

There’s no moral to this story. I just thought Poop-itis was a great word.

And no the kids haven’t turned into frogs. I mean green as in queasy. Since late September we’ve been sick with something virtually non-stop. On today’s trip to the pediatrician, I asked him what I was doing wrong. I Lysol every surface imaginable. I wash their hands (and mine) regularly. We take vitamins and try to eat right (this is perhaps a bad time to admit I’ve subsisted this entire day on M&Ms and Mountain Dew). So why are we sick so much???

Our pediatrician was sympathetic, saying this has been a rough couple of months for everyone. Apparently, they’re seeing record numbers of office visits. But the primary reason he offered was the fact that four children cast a wider net for illness than one. If Jack manages to side-step a particular bug, it’s a cinch Tom, Sam or Will will run smack into it. And their dad and I get to tag along for the ride — from bronchitis to stomach flu.

Bottom line…I’m exhausted. I’m run down, and the creative juices are nothing but a dried-up, crusty patch on the right side of my brain (how’s that for imagery?). Who knew simply making it from one day to the next could be such an energy drain? Anyone else wondering if they’re going to make it off this Merry-Go-Round with their wits intact?

Plumber to auger out “White Plastic Part” which we later identified as part of the potty seat = $218.00

Locksmith who took all @#$% day to unlock mommy’s bedroom door and give her access to her clothes, toothbrush, etc. = $100

Pain and suffering = $4,682

Over the last 24 hours, you’ve lost $5,000 from your college fund, Sam. At this rate, you better be really smart or really athletic.

Much love,

Mommy

Yesterday, Will was the chosen one to go furniture shopping with his grandmother and me. It was really Tom’s turn, but he wasn’t feeling quite up to speed after their recent bout with a stomach virus and went on a crying jag shortly before it was time to leave.

“Tommy, boys who cry and pitch a fit can’t go for a ride in Maw Maw’s car,” Linda cajoled, hoping to help Tommy pull himself out of the doldrums. “You have to be a good boy to get to go on a trip.”

“I’m happy today!” Will assured her. “See? I’m smiling. I’m happy.” Will eagerly displayed his impressive set of choppers. And in the end, when Tommy had to settle for an early nap alongside a still slightly green Sam, Will’s lobbying paid off.

“Only me?” he clarified as I put on his jacket.

“Yes, baby,” I assured him. “Only you get to go on this trip.”

With each step down the sidewalk toward his Maw Maw’s car, he chanted, “On-ly. Me! Not Jack. Not Tom. Not Sam. On-ly me. Me. Me. Me.”

It was quite the adventure. We shopped for furniture where he climbed inside a china cabinet and hid. We shopped for appliances where he found a footed bathtub, climbed inside, and pretended to take a shower. We went to the lunch counter at a local drugstore where he ate crinkle cut fries, a corn dog and over half a vanilla milkshake. He even got a stuffed kitten to commemorate the day. Black Kitty has not left his side since.

Don’t worry, Tom will get another shot in the next few days. Which means I have to drink another milkshake. The sacrifices I make more my children!

As I hurriedly slapped on a coat of my favorite mascara in an effort to look less like an aging matron and more like the hottie I always imagined myself, Sam and Will played in the empty bathtub behind me.

Sam: Will–here’s your ding-ding.

Will (excitedly): My ding-ding!!

I turned to find them exchanging a foam picture of a traffic light that they pretend is the switch Thomas the Train passes on his run around the Island of Sodor. It makes a dinging noise. What did you think I was going to say?

Dump it all into a big pile. Pick out the things that are just too difficult to feed toddlers. Caramels? Honestly? Then take out all the generic stuff that tastes weird and isn’t worth the calories. Sample things you haven’t tried in at least 20 years. Now’N’Laters are still delicious in a weird kind of way. Now separate the chocolate from the fruity stuff — they make each other taste funny. Don’t even pretend you don’t think so, too.

Now for the most important part. Take out all the stuff that your kids will most likely take one bite of, then spit in the garbage — i.e. stuff with nuts and/or coconut. Keep all this for yourself.

Throw the rest in a bowl on the counter and tell them they can have two pieces per day (Ideally, you’ll have two bowls — one for chocolate and one for fruity stuff. Weren’t you paying attention?). Pretend you can’t hear them when they stage a coup and raid the bowl(s) while you’re busy being somewhere else. Once they’ve made themselves sick enough to never want candy again (at least until tomorrow) throw the whole mess in the garbage and declare Halloween well and truly over nearly one week after the fact.

Put your whole stash in the freezer (everyone but you thinks it’s full of nothing but vegetables). Determine to pace yourself so you’ll have one piece of candy every day for the next month. Have a PMS attack and consume the entire stash in under 8 seconds.

Thank God Halloween only comes once a year.

A tear stained face peeked through the doorway and eyed me reproachfully.

“You not yell at me,” Will ordered.

“Mommy wouldn’t have to yell at you if you would do what she said,” I replied, trying not to grin.

“You too loud. You not yell at me. Not anymore.”

I crouched down to Will’s eye level, listening to the crunch of my knees and ignoring the spasms threatening to take hold of my lower back. “Will…Mommy was very afraid you were going to get burned by the hot grease that was popping out of her pan. And when Mommy get’s scared, that’s when she yells the most.”

“Dat not nice.”

This time I couldn’t hold back the grin. “How about I try not to yell, and you do what Mommy says the first time so she doesn’t have to get scared. O.k.?”

“O.k.” Will reluctantly agreed. I sat him on the counter while I tidied around him. Brushing bits of carrot and onion into my hand then depositing them in the garbage. Will contemplated me silently, his tiny feet swinging in time to some internal rhythm. I dropped a kiss on the top of his tousled head as I passed by and turned to stir my latest culinary endeavor.

Over my shoulder, I heard, “Dat’s my Mommy.”

Turning, I smiled at my youngest boy and said, “That’s my Will Will.”

Looks like I’ve been forgiven.

I just couldn’t find anything funny about being at my wits end over four busy boys, with a body that’s falling apart and a mind that should qualify me for disability — or maybe congress. Am I the only one that sometimes finds putting one foot in front of the other is the sum total of my abilities?

Anyhow, I seriously hope to come across my sense of humor again soon. I bet it’s right beside my sunglasses. I haven’t seen them in over a week either.