In the words of Anne Lamott when referencing her infant’s colic, “Yesterday was war. Vietnam.”
In my last post, I made the amateur mistake of making this joke: “Will we have a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with family or will we stay home because someone suddenly got a fever and keeps vomiting into my cleavage? I guess we’ll find out!”
We found out.
It was only a couple hours after hitting publish that my oldest told me her tummy hurt. I knew that look in her eye. I fled to the bathroom and grabbed a trashcan but it was too late. She tried to run from her own vomiting and was growing increasingly frustrated as it kept following her. She traced the entire couch, back and forth, ensuring not a single spot left uncovered.
I got the trashcan under her and she looks into my eyes and shouts, “Call a doctor! This is disgustin’!”
Where did she even learn that? I don’t recall Elmo ever saying anything like that – not once.
I got her and the couch cleaned up, but apparently I was just for prepping for round two. As I helped put the trashcan under her chin yet again, the baby of the family, not to be outdone for attention – crawled into my lap, gently took my face and turned it to look at her. Then she dropped her eyes and made a pretend moan.
“Poppy, this baby version of a desperate plea for attention is adorable – but not now!” I yelled. Their competitive teen years are going to be pure hell.
Finally, once it had seemed to pass, I got her cozy on the couch when my husband burst through the door, hours before he was due home. With zero greeting, he sprinted towards the bathroom. I wasn’t sure if he was vomiting or being murdered by a Viking, but I did know the noises were probably louder than they needed to be.
I ran do the bathroom door. “Oh dear God, what’s happening?”
“What’s it look like?” he said, voice echoing in the bowl.
“This might be a bad time for this, but um … I was going to get started on my Thanksgiving prep – think you’ll have an appetite or …”
Lucy semi recovered, but Rob never did. He eventually had to go to the ER where he was hooked up to IVs (he’s always been a bit dramatic), but he’s home now recovering and I’m left wondering what to do with half a mortgage worth of Thanksgiving groceries.
So, we’ll be staying home today. Although I was bringing the main dessert, my family has aggressively told us to stay away, with all their love. I have a gigantic trifle in the fridge that I’ll probably eat with a spoon by myself while watching Elf later.
Other than the extreme paranoia that I’m next, I’m surprisingly joyous. Thankful even. I keep laughing at Lucy shouting, “Call a doctor!” and laughter sets things the way it should be, most of the time.
I’m thankful for you. Very, very thankful.
I hope your Thanksgiving is bit better than mine, but if it’s not – hey, we always have next year.
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