Turns out having a houseful of five kids, four of whom are in school all day fighting off the microorganisms constantly attacking their immune system, is a recipe for vomit. Jack kicked things off with a splashdown on the master bedroom hardwood, just before reaching the bathroom. Three hours later Greta sat up in bed with yours truly and sprayed chunks on half a dozen of her blankets. I figured she'd emptied her stomach and we'd rest easy the rest of the night, but she threw up any drop of liquid that made it down her esophagus. Seven times we woke up, spit bile in a bucket, and went back to sleep. By morning, there were eight blankets in the laundry room. So far today, Greta has kept down her soft, bland foods and liquids. Jack seems to have slept it off. He woke about 1030 and is happily playing Wii with Linc, who has avoided the retching at this point, as has Kira. All the parents seem OK. Just maybe a little "sick" of each other.
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