I spent Ash Wednesday, the start of the holy season of Lent, nursing two children back to health after a wicked virus turned their bellies inside out and caused them to decorate the house with vomit and diarrhea. 

In other words, I didn't make it to church to get my forehead smeared with ashes. 

It seems I also neglected to settle on a Lenten sacrifice - some vice or bad habit that many Christians vow to forgo for 40 days as they prepare for the annual celebration of Easter. 

Last year, one of our parish priests abstained from cookies. A neighbor gave up wine. Some people vow to turn off the television, volunteer more, refrain from Facebook, treat their spouses better, shout at their children less often, pray the rosary every day. 

Noble efforts, all. 

This afternoon, as I readied the youngest three for nap, I noticed a rancid cloud of grossness hanging over Tobias. A diarrhea bomb exploded in his diaper and the detritus ran up his back and down his legs. It destroyed his onesie and pants and my olfactory senses. Such as they were after changing thousands of diapers over the past five and a half year...

Read the rest at Feast After Famine.