Tiny Hulk, Exploding Diapers & a Prayer

For today’s entertainment, please allow me to be your personal sacrifice for the laughs.

My family just got done being sick—and no, I don’t mean your average summer sniffles. I don’t know what this virus was, but the universe can keep it. Seriously. Return to sender. It was ruthless.

Now, my son (bless his little Hulk-sized heart) has been in and out of the hospital his whole life. Anytime he catches anything—cold, allergies, a whisper of a breeze—his neck swells, his oxygen drops, and breathing becomes a full-time job thanks to scar tissue and narrow airways from being intubated as a baby.

We now have a steroid at home to avoid the ER, but this time? Nah. His oxygen was at 86 and he’s over here sprinting like he’s training for the toddler Olympics. Imagine someone hulking out while not being able to breathe. Make it make sense.

Cue ER visit. Treatment. More steroids. And suddenly he’s the most energetic child in a 50-mile radius. It took THREE nurses, my husband, and me to hold him down for a chest X-ray. Nurses were genuinely impressed at how strong this kid was…while also being shocked he could still function at all. Meanwhile, he’s bouncing off the walls of the hospital room like he's at a rave and we're just over here like, “Yeah... this is our life. Please send help and snacks.”

So now we’re home with Tiny Hulk, praying he doesn’t try to choke slam his sisters or rip a door off its hinges. I, on the other hand, start feeling like I've been hit by a truck—chest on fire, full body aches. My two older kids wisely ran away to my parents’ house for safety (smart). My toddler, however, transformed into a fever-ridden dictator with very specific snack demands.

She slept 12 hours a day. Tiny Hulk? Not him. Fever and chaos were his jam. By day three, he finally took a nap. And thank the Lord because I truly thought I was on my deathbed.

We're cuddling—sweet moment, right?—and all I hear is, “Mommy, my belly hurts.” ...Yup. Puked. All over my back. It dripped into my buttcrack. Yes, you read that right.

He starts laughing and yells, “Eww mommy, you’re disgustin’!” Yeah. Thanks, son.

I peel myself out of those clothes, clean up the couch, and right as I take a breath… my toddler rips off her diaper and has explosive diarrhea all over the rug.

And here comes Tiny Hulk again: “AHHH her buttcrack is POOPING everywhere! Stop her, mommy!”

Then—then!—this little gremlin wants to flex his muscles and say, “You wanna see my muscles?! That’ll make you feel better!” Honestly, I almost died laughing. From the fever? Maybe. From the situation? Absolutely.

At that point, we were down one rug and one mom’s last shred of sanity. I couldn’t even bring myself to clean the second rug. That thing went straight to the trash. Judge me if you must, but that was my villain origin story.

So I threw both poop and puke monsters into the tub, praying for a reset. My husband walked in from work right as I was about to collapse and... guess who didn’t feel good now? Yeah. Him. Awesome.

We all ended up passed out on the couch like some sort of post-apocalyptic sick tribe. I didn’t care. I wasn’t moving anyone. If they were asleep, they stayed asleep.

Next morning? My dad calls. “Hey, your mom’s sick now too.” PERFECT. She’s the strongest woman I know and this virus still took her down. If that doesn't tell you how contagious this thing was, I don’t know what will.

My two oldest came home and locked themselves in one room like they were in quarantine on a spaceship. Miraculously, they survived untouched by the plague.

Moral of the story: Moms (and dads), you are superheroes. Sick, tired, working, still taking care of everyone. If you’re in the thick of it right now, I see you. If no one has said it lately: You are deeply appreciated. Sending hugs to all the mamas running on fumes and love. 💛