not quite the souvenir I would have picked

So, Dan's home -- but he's sick. He walked in the door and I immediately noticed he was stuffy. He attributes that to sitting outside in the cold for hours watching a Yankees game on Tuesday night. As the night went on, he started complaining of a stomach ache. By the time we went up to bed, he was sort of moaning and shifting around and doing that sighing thing. You know, the sighing that screams, "Hey! You might puke!"

If you know me at all, you know of my absurd fear of vomiting. This fear doesn't just extend to me, but to others as well. Tell me that your stomach hurts, and immediately I'm sweaty, queasy, and fretting. If you've actually vomited, watch out -- I might Lysol every surface in the house (in addition to sweating and fretting). My mind screams, "Did I touch anything they touched? What's that pain in my abdomen? OH GOD!!!"

In a show of my skill at being the most unsympathetic wife ever, I hopped out of bed after the second sigh and practically ran downstairs with Olivia, where she slept in her swing for 4 hours and I dozed on the couch. I say dozed because my mind was swimming with thoughts of kissing him (aka The Fateful Virus Transfer) when he arrived home. Nooooo! He must be really sick, because he stayed home today. I can count on one hand the number of times he's been ill since I met him. Eeek. I'm hoping he contains his germs to the upper level of the house, because thanks to our triage room (the guest room is stocked with diapers/wipes, outfits for Olivia, and a bed), I could live down here for a week.

Off to find the Clorox wipes and Lysol ...