Driving the Porcelain Bus

I’m not sure where it all started, my guess is either the stuffy, sock-smelling Chick-fil-A playground or the library, but Rush threw up in his pack and play Saturday night and it set off a chain reaction that ended (hopefully) in Trent’s lamest birthday ever.

I understand that there are certain unpleasant things that parents can’t avoid –trips to the emergency room, awkward confrontations with other parents, middle school- and I knew that going into the delivery room.  But I completely forgot that kids throw up in cars.  I’m not sure how I forgot that, especially since my own sister has thrown up at more times and in more places than anyone else, ever.  She’s barfed in more cities and countries than most people will even visit in their entire lives.

So even armed with a towel and a plastic bag for our drive home from visiting the grandparents last weekend, I was caught totally off guard.  I’m adding the “Cleaned” Car Seat in Gas Station Sink merit badge to my sash.  And although that contributed to the general parent grubbiness of my car, what actually pushed it over the edge into irredeemably filthy was the Sprite exploding in the front seat after Rush got so excited about drinking it.

He does always make the best of a situation.  At six AM, when the two of us had been up for two hours and he has just thrown up in Gigi and Papa John’s kitchen, he was sipping ginger ale and watching me clean the floor and saying “Lucky boy, lucky boy!”  Because of course he is a lucky boy; for a two year old it just doesn’t get any better than getting to drink coke in the morning.

So since that moment it’ s just been a long chain of illness for anyone who came in contact with us last weekend.  Trent left work early to take care of the boys once it got me on Monday, but he only made it a few hours longer than I did.  Then my mom came to help us with the boys, but she was only at our house for four hours before it got her too.  All I could think about was the ship in Swiss Family Robinson with the quarantine flag. 

Although if we’re putting up nautical flags, I’m adding this one next time we’re sick:

"Keep clear of me; I am maneuvering with difficulty."

Miraculously, thank God, Tate has stayed healthy through the whole experience.  He just watched us as we collapsed on the floor, one by one, and then all together.  I’m sure at this point he’s ready for a change of scenery.

So Trent, Happy Birthday.  I’m not sure if this birthday tops his 28th -when we moved- but at least that time we got to go out to eat.  We’ll have cake in a few days when we’ve moved past toast and crackers.