"Stomach... churning!"

I’m still sick. I feel a lot better than I did yesterday, but that isn’t saying much considering I spent most of yesterday flat on the floor complaining about my gut. Today I can at least sit up while complaining about my gut. I swear I could feel every individual food molecule as it bounced around my stomach at blazing speeds, like my belly was a little skate park for food molecules, and I was the crotchety old man complaining about how those food molecule hooligans were going to ruin the place.

I’m not sure what I’ve got. It could be a bug, but those generally affect more than just the stomach. Bugs usually make your whole body miserable, much like a student loan collection officer. It could be food poisoning, but nothing I ate seemed any moldier than usual. If it is food poisoning, I really hope the source isn’t the cupcakes I made for the neighbors. Botulism seems like a poor reward for watching our cranky kid. Anyway, that frosting may have been in the refrigerator for a while, but it wasn’t that old.

Being too sick to move makes supervising Abbie more interesting than usual. Like I said, I spent most of my day flat on my back, which limited my field of vision to directly above me. Without being able to see Abbie, I relied on sound to make sure she stayed away from any object that could cause injury worse than a first-degree rug burn. As long as I could hear her doing things like pressing buttons on electronic toys or tearing pages in books, I knew she was safe. If I was really smart, I would put her in her room and lie down in the doorway, ensuring that there was absolutely no chance she could leave the safety of her room without my knowledge unless I fell asleep which I only did once but that was just for a minute and I knew exactly where she was and what she was doing the whole time. Otherwise I would lay in the living room, which is also pretty baby-proof as long as I hear her constant movements. Failure to do so may result in this situation:

“Abbie? Abbie, where are you? You’d better not be in the dog food. (rustling noise) No, Abbie, babies don’t eat dog food. (pause, then more rustling) Abbie, get your hand out of there! (rustling, then quiet) There, that’s a good baby. (continued quiet) Wait, you didn’t put some in your mouth, did you? (I finally lift my head to see her mouth unusually bloated) Abigail! (I scramble to my feet, and then fall to my knees as the blood rush and the stomach cramping makes me light-headed) Abigail Leigh, if I don’t pass out, you’re in big trouble.”

Another disadvantage to my flat position is it leaves me exposed to the other living entities in the house. Abbie is in a phase where she likes to hit things. She doesn’t hit things to be malicious; she just likes to hit things to hear the sound they make. I don’t mind if she hits my arms and legs, but my over-sensitive tummy is completely vulnerable to her poundings. Also, lying on the floor leaves me at risk of being viscously licked by my dog. Lousy dog.

See, I told you I could sit up while complaining.