It was 11 p.m. and I had just fallen asleep when I heard a cry from my 4-year-old son’s room. I headed downstairs to find a trail of vomit on the carpet and up the stairs, as he tried to make his way up to my bedroom. The next few hours were a blur as I rushed him back and forth to the bathroom. The second time he got sick, he vomited directly into my hands, onto my robe, in my hair. As frantically as I worked to scrub my hands and face with soap and water and get all the clothes and bedding into the laundry, I knew I would be the next person to experience norovirus in the house.
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