Dear Stomach Virus,
I understand that your entire reason for being is to infect the human body. That you live to reproduce, not unlike we humans ourselves. I have always considered myself an proponent of the pursuit of happiness for all. That being said, I simply can not live with you in my home.
When my darling daughter came off the bus yesterday, telling me her tummy hurt, I simply chalked it up to her usual homeworkitus. After all she had no problem inhaling the cupcakes I’d made for after school snack. Nor did she abstain from running around my once clean family room like a crazy person with her siblings or the other sorted neighborhood children.
After the ruckus died down you found it necessary to announce your arrival by forcing her body into a vomitious attack in an attempt to rid itself of you. As I disinfected the downstairs bathroom, all the while fighting a battle with my own bile, I hoped in vain that you had not come home to roost here.
Those hopes were dashed in grand fashion as my poor child lost control of both ends of her digestive system simultaneously, managing to miss the commode with both. I battled against reflexes while scrubbing, moping, sanitizing and attempting to comfort. This struggle continued throughout the evening and into the early morning hours.
I have to say that at this point I harbor nothing but disdain for you and your ilk. I want you out of my child. Expunged from my home. Wiped from the face of the earth. At the point where your pursuit of happiness collided with my dropping a roll of paper towels into puddle of poo, splattering said excrement like a Jackson Pollock mural upon the walls of my restroom. My own happiness became paramount and I declared war upon you and all your infectious kind.
Please take note that you are no longer on our Christmas card list.
A mom sick of the s#!t