24 hour flu.

I've woken up to barf the past two mornings. This phenonmenon is unique to my youngest daughter. I always thought that a 24-hour bug simply meant not being able to keep anything down for about 24 hours before a full recovery. Not so with Rachel. Her version includes vomiting once every 24 hours for an indefinite period before ridding herself of the bug. The strangest thing about it is that she seems perfectly normal in between these bouts.
My favorite time was earlier this summer when I was enjoying the nausea of early pregnancy and took the family to McDonald's for dinner. After playing happily in the PlayPlace for 45 minutes or so, she unloaded her dinner all over the floor. Yum.
The next night, we went to Applebee's (we went out to eat a lot during that period, you faithful readers might recall) and, after a relatively uneventful meal - meaning, there was no mad rush to get the check before someone had a meltdown - Rachel decided that my lap was a perfect location for a violent upheaval of her grilled cheese sandwich and lemonade. I covered her mouth and carried her, spewing liquid grossness through my fingers, from the restaurant. It was not one of my most glorious moments.
Anyway, I guess I should count my blessings that her latest 24 hour flu has not manifested itself in public. In fact, I am grateful, trust me. But I'm also praying that I don't get a 6:30 a.m. wake-up call tomorrow morning.