It's Christmas -- someone in the house is sick. As usual.

Let me tell you, there is NO WORSE way to wake up in the middle of the night. The sound of my husband upchucking slowly pierced through my sleep addled state. So I got up, stayed with him, got him drinks of water and generally did all the steadfast wife stuff (only once retreating to the other bathroom to be a little sick, myself -- sorry, it got to me). Finally, his stomach calmed down and he could get to sleep. I will make him stay in bed and ply him with Gatoraid and 7-Up as soon as his stomach will take it. He's probably dry as a prune after that bout.

I knew one of us would end up sick before New Year's Day. It always happens. We had conscientiously Purell'ed ourselves after every foray out of the house, wiped down shopping carts with wet wipes, stayed far away from anyone with as much as a sniffle. All to no avail. At least 75% of the last 15 Christmases, and all of the last five, one or both of us have been sick.

I hoped that after we retired it would be easier to stay well. And, all through the year it had been. No colds, no sore throats, no stomach viruses. Since I wasn't spending my days anymore sitting in the cubicle next to the guy with two small children who seemed to be peerless germ factories (infecting his wife, him and then everyone they contacted!) it had been easier. Husband's been home full time since spring, and managed to get through outpatient hospital visits this summer without catching something, a feat in itself.

I must have gotten cocky. Now, I just have to keep Lysol-ing the bathroom and pray it doesn't find me next. But why oh why do we have to be sick during the holidays?