Of Tattoos and Vomit

We're going camping this weekend. What's that you say? Why yes, they ARE predicting thunderstorms. And did you mention stomach flu? Don't worry, only M has it for now, and I'm sure it will all clear up and not get passed to anyone else. It's highly unlikely that The Baby will start vomiting in the tent in the middle of the night.

I've been valiantly trying to control the spread of germs, but kids are gross not always consistent with hand washing, so I'm not sure how much good it will do. M has spent the last 24 hours throwing up and only just kept down some pita bread and half a banana. Now she is on her 500th hour of crap TV and seems to be getting a bit better. I, however, am just sitting here waiting for one of the other kids to start up because it's never just one. That wouldn't be a challenge!

Somehow, Husband has missed all the fun, timing a trip to Paris with the beginning of the barfing. I'm convinced that he has some sort of sickness radar that triggers an alert to European colleagues to schedule meetings in other cities the minute one of the kids comes down with something. It's OK though, I know who will getting up in the middle of the night to run a kid through the woods to the latrines.

(Ugh, probably me.)

On a bright note, I'm just about to take our friends' French au pair to the tattoo parlor (do they still call it a parlor? Somehow I don't think they do), so I'm pretty sure that nothing can go wrong with that!  He's looking for a souvenir of his summer in England, and he'd like me to translate his request to the tattoo-er (tattoo-ist? Despite a totally awesome tramp stamp, I have doubts about my expertise in this area.) How do you say, "I'd like an extra large image of Queen's face in the middle of my back, please?"

I'll let you know how it all goes. Smoothly, I'm sure.