If you're eating, don't read this.

There is something horrifying about the sound of children coughing and burping - and not because it might be rude, but because after too much experience with the flu ambushing my family, I know the difference in intonation between a regular burp or cough and the prelude to projectile vomit.

We went to Eric's mom's house for Christmas last year. Our little family had just recovered from some awful version of the flu - it felt like the flu and food poisoning had bred to form something that took us just short of death. But we overcame. It took us a month, but by the end of December we were good. We could have Christmas. We were lucky.

Eric's stepsister and her family were there as well, as was my other sister in law and her family. This particular year, we were all sitting around the table at dinner, enjoying the meal and company. Eric sat beside his niece when we heard her hiccup.

We both looked at each other, our thoughts shooting across the table. Did you hear that? That didn't sound good.

No one else seemed to notice, but they hadn't just gone through what we had. When the baby hiccuped again, Eric's hand flew under her mouth to catch the vomit before anyone else had the chance to compute. Once she finished, her mother and father, red from embarrassment, apologize profusely as if they put their daughter up to it in a joke that went bad. No one really cares though, beyond the fact that it sucks to have a sick baby.

The rest of the family continued eating - yes, even with the mess on the table.

After a while, you become numb to things other people would balk at. One experience I have in particular involves a "blowout," a little boy, and a johnny jumper. Use your imagination.

Not much bothers me anymore.

So about a week ago, Abbie woke up around midnight, moaning and telling me her stomach hurt. Knowing she can be a bit of a drama-queen, I didn't think much of it, but I let her lay beside me for about ten minutes. We watched something about dinosaurs on the Discovery Channel before I asked her if she was ready to go back to bed. She nodded, and I walked her back.

Ten minutes later I heard coughing--and not the good kind.

"Abbie! Bathroom!"

She walked and stood in front of the bathroom (which is right outside our bedroom door).

"Do you have to throw up?"

"No."

More coughing.

I don't remember what made me jump up (it was one in the morning), but before I knew it, I was up and catching the remnants of her digested hot dog in my hand as I raced her toward the toilet.

I hadn't slept yet, it was one in the morning, and this crap is on the floor, the wall, and all over my hand. I knew I was lucky. I've dealt with much, much worse.

Once she finished, I took her back into my room, hoping it was just "one of those things" since she didn't have a temp. She chills on the old crib mattress beside my bed for a half hour. When some time goes by with nothing, I had her go back to bed. Once she's in and quiet, I turned off the TV and tried to sleep.

I should've known better.

She snuck back into the room.

"Go back to bed, Abbie. Please. Mommy needs her sleep."

She stood there, defiant. She didn't want to go. So I got up and put her butt into bed.

Some minutes later, she's coughing and hacking and heaving. I'm a little miffed, because I know this girl. She might be bringing it on herself for the attention and an invitation to come back into my room. I let her finish (she had a bucket), then I got up, cleaned her up, and put her back in bed with a song. Sometime later - I don't know when - she threw up again. I made Eric get up that time. I hadn't woken him yet because I knew he'd let me sleep in, but I was done.

I reached behind me, trying to find Eric as if by Braille. Once I did, I smacked him, slurring "Eric, she's throwing up" upon which time I promptly fell back asleep.

Fast forward to the morning, and she had a temp, hadn't moved much from the leather recliner, and couldn't keep much down. All I could think about was the many times Abbie had told me "Eduardo threw up at school today."

I can't be sure, but I think she'd told me this on different occasions, which leads me to believe Eduardo's parents hadn't kept him at home when they should've. I mean, if your kid just has the sniffles, make the kid go to school. If he/she's hurling chunks, you might want to keep him/her home.

All I knew that night was that I had to get up early. The boys don't care that Abbie's sick and I haven't slept, or that Daddy will leave all-too-early for work and I will have to deal with breakfast and Joseph's nasty diaper. They will get up right on time: 6:00. I will let them watch whatever the hell they want. I will give them leftover cake for breakfast. I've given it to them for dinner before. A girl has got to survive.

And besides, I've watched Bill Cosby: Himself. I know cake isn't all that bad.

When the morning came, however, the boys thought it would be cute to hiccup and cough, too. "I sick, Mommy. I sick too."

What's that they say? Imitation is the purest form of flattery?

Not in this house.