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Intestinal fortitude

I’ve got a cast-iron stomach. Nothing bothers me. (Which is why, when I had nine months of morning sickness, I was such a total wuss.) But every once in a while — about every five years or so — I eat something that doesn’t like me.

I did that Friday.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but it was bad enough that I shipped The Child off with my mom and dad for the weekend on the chance that it’s a stomach bug and not a bad batch of clams. (It wasn’t clams, I didn’t eat any clams. But it was something. Not peanut butter, either, before you ask.)

I really hate being sick.

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