The stomach/intestinal bug hit us around 3 AM, the morning after Thanksgiving.
By seven or so, I lay in bed sipping weakly from a glass of diluted Gatorade that Mark had just brought me.
"You're probably dehydrated. You should weigh yourself!" he said cheerfully (considering the circumstances) as he went out the door to tend to the boys. Sickness makes them noisy squabblers, and Grandma was laid low too behind the bedroom door a few feet where they were playing.
I grunted and rolled over, but a few minutes later staggered into the bathroom to step on the scale.
106.4, huh. Well, that makes my 5-day average. With room to spare.
The next time Mark came up to see how I was feeling, I told him the number. He grinned. "Congratulations, hon." We both twirled our index fingers in the air and muttered, "whoo."
Party today. In my in-law's bathroom, next to the toilet bowl. Today, I am so totally going to eat all the saltine crackers that I want.
This concludes the category called "The last three pounds."