The end of a vacation deserves a vacation

The Husband and I wanted to visit Boston.  We only had one day without any obligations to the wedding.  One day to squeeze in a week of vacation.  Boston was our first choice.

Then a friend of The Husband, who was born and raised in Boston, told him that the boys would be completely bored with any of the historic stuff in Boston and we would spend the time trying to keep the boys occupied.  He suggested Salem.  Remembering the weeks of studying Salem’s history when I was a teen, I agreed.  My parents and baby brother were staying longer in Boston and decided to join us.

I tried to pump up the boys telling them about the pirate museum.  Tornado S ran around the hotel room, yelling “Yo-ho!”  Tornado E wasn’t convinced.  I mentioned the witch museum, grasping at straws.  I had forgotten that Tornado E was a witch last Halloween, and he jumped around, talking about witches and wizards.

We ended going to a pirate museum and two witch museums that were run by the same company.  The Husband had looked at the reviews the night before, worried about the negative reviews.  The negative reviews were right; I wouldn’t call these museums.  They were more like walking through a wax museum as each museum had rooms filled with manikins positioned to act out scenes.  We were walked through the tour by different guides who were knowledgeable and entertaining.  In the end, we were entertained and learned something.  Though I decided after watching a scene form “a trail” (which looked and sounded a whole lot like a scene from “The Crucible” to the point I swear it was from the play word for word) and hearing what the scenes were in the museum, I decided the boys did not need to have a look through the witch dungeon.  At the end, we spent a couple more hours there than we had planned, since we were hoping to catch a glimpse of Boston history that day.

We ended up not getting to Boston, staying at a hotel just outside the city.  After dinner, where Tornado S learned to say “Appabee’s,” charming the wait-staff, we found a park on the map.  We took the boys, letting them run off their energy.  My mom spied an ice cream shop just passed the park, and we went to satisfy our curiosity and sweet tooth.  The Husband, being a generous father, let Tornado E pick his own ice cream out, which was bubblegum.  In his defense, The Husband had no idea that there was real bubblegum in the ice cream.

When we got to the hotel room, The Husband fell asleep immediately; while, I tried to get the boys to sleep without much fuss, fighting, or giggling.  Nothing like sharing a double bed.  In desperation, I rolled a towel up, length wise, and placed it between them, commanding not to stray over the towel with dire consequences.

About two-thirty in the morning, I was awoken by a strange sound that I couldn’t place.  The Husband sprung from the bed, yelling for me to grab something because Tornado S was vomiting.  Apparently Tornado S doesn’t cry when he throws up but makes a gentle heaving sound that barely pierces my deep sleep.  I ran to the bathroom, grabbing a towel because we didn’t have anything else.  We held Tornado S over the towel until he was finished.  Then I cleaned him up, putting on a new shirt, and he fell asleep.  I washed out the towel as best I could and returned to bed.

Fifteen minutes later, I heard the heaving noise.  I sprang across the bed, grabbing the towel that laid in between the boys.  I held Tornado S over it, noticing that Tornado S was still sleeping as he emptied more of his stomach.  When Tornado S was finished, I went back to bed, leaving the towel folded up near Tornado S, ready for more.

The Husband: What do you think is wrong with Tornado S?

Me: Dessert to close to bedtime.  Two nights before we left, Tornado S threw up because my dad fed him three cookies, a piece of pie, and some Papi candy.  Tornado S will be fine.  He doesn’t even have a fever.

The Husband was content and was snoring to wake the dead within seconds.  The Husband is notorious for his snoring.  His friends believe I’m a saint.  His snoring usually doesn’t bother me because I’m a heavy sleeper.  Not this night.  I lay awake for twenty minutes wondering if I put a pillow over him if it would quiet him enough for me to get some sleep or would that be murder and if he did accidentally die could I claim lack of sleep and frustration over vacation as an insanity plea or would this be manslaughter.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was waking up to a thump and crying.  It was four-thirty, and Tornado E had rolled out of bed, hitting his head on the night stand.  The Husband swore and picked Tornado E up, depositing him into our bed so I could soothe him.  Unlike the last hotel, this one didn’t have cheap chairs I could have moved around to make a gate to keep Tornado E from rolling out.  I had hoped my son had grown out of thrashing so much.  I was wrong.

A half an hour later, I was woken up by the screaming of the alarm as well as The Husband trying to fight it.  I hate beeping of alarms.  The Husband hates alarms.  I got up, went around the other side, removed the alarm from the monster paw, trying to bat it to death.  I shut off the alarm.

Me: Leaving Boston at 9am.  Brilliant.

The Husband muttered something incoherent that I chose to ignore than speculate on the negative reaction to my sarcasm.  He tried to roll over and sleep again.

Tornado E vomited all over my side of the bed.  The Husband thought it was a good time to get up.  We calmed down Tornado E and cleaned him up.  He stopped crying and looked at us.

Tornado E: Daddy’s funny.  Why’d he do that to the alarm?

Me: Because Daddy’s not a morning person.  How do you feel?

I took a quick shower to come out dressed to find that Tornado E was crying because he had pooped his diaper.  (He still wears pull-ups at night.)  The Husband shrugged, still trying to comfort Tornado E.  I checked.  It was a little diarrhea.  I calmed him down and changed him into underwear.  As I turned to finish packing, Tornado E vomited again.  I grabbed the last towel.  This did not bode well for our flight.  I packed the last pull-up into the diaper bag next to the last underwear of Tornado E’s.

The Husband: What are we going to do?

Me: We’re going to buy crackers when we fill up on gas.  I’m going to give him Mylocon drops in hopes that it can help settle his stomach.

We finished getting ready and began our trek to the Boston airport, stopping to get gas and crackers.  Tornado S refused food.  I should have guessed.  As we drove down the last freeway heading towards the airport, GPS being unreasonable helpful, Tornado S throw up, and there was nothing to catch it.  Luckily there wasn’t anything left in his stomach.

When we got to the rental place, I took Tornado S into the bathroom to strip him and dress him.  I also found out that he too had diarrhea.  Awesome.  We came to the unanimous decision to check Tornado S’s car seat and use Tornado E’s as we had learned coming in that air regulations does not allow for a car seat on the aisle.  Siblings should not be trusted next to each other on a long, cranky airplane ride.  We had already decided I would sit in the middle this time and have Tornado E out of his car seat.

I won’t go into the other gory details of the diarrhea.  I’ll just say that poor Tornado E was horrified that he leaked.  In the end, I had to put him into a Tornado S diaper in Dallas.  In the hour we waited during our lay over and boarded the next plane, I had to change Tornado S three times.  He did not leak.  By that time, I dreamt of getting home, filling the baby pool, stripping the boys, and letting them live outside in the back yard for the rest of the day.  Never mind the 109 degrees with no shade.  Never mind this was our thunderstorm season.  I was done.

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Your Reguarly Scheduled Post has been Interrupted

So Sean was tired on Friday as he recuperated, but Evan was a tornado.  Saturday both boys romped and played as usual.  Sunday morning they were up early as usual with their energy just bursting throughout the house, and I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the worse was over.  Then Evan woke from his nap.

 

He was crying, which he never does.  He was hot.  101 to be exact.  While I ran upstairs to get the Mortim, he threw up.  A lot.  All over the couch and himself.

 

As I sprayed the vomit off his clothes and the sofa cover down the disposal, I realized how calm I acted, not a twinge of disgust or the feeling of nausea.  In college, it was an unspoken rule of the room that if you prayed to the porcelain god you were cleaning it up.  It made me sick just to listen, imagining.  *shudder*  Then I was a teacher’s assistant for kindergarten.  One day the teacher asked me to take one of the little girls to the office because she was complaining of not feeling well.  As I escorted the girl to the office, she vomited all over my beloved Doc Martins.  I believed I had two choices on how to react.  I could be disgusted, making a face or a sound to show it, wiping off my boots on the grass, or I could ignore the vomit and comfort the sick, humiliated little five-year-old.  I was smart enough to bend down and hug the girl and tell her everything is going to be all right.

 

So last night as Evan vomited up the bead sticks that I stupidly allowed him to eat one after another (and vomit them one after another), I dutifully stripped the bed, stripped the boy, delivered the boy into the bath, and hosed off the vomit.  At the end of the night we were running out of sheets just as the first set was drying.  After several times of delivering Evan back into his bed because he was so hot and miserable, I relented and let him stay in bed with us.  Of course, I was too lazy to get the throw up bowl, so when he expelled his juice all over my side of the bed, I only had myself to blame.  Luckily I sat up quick enough for him to miss my hair.    So began another hour of trying to convince him to sleep in his bed as I threw a towel over the wet sport because the king is the only one without an extra set of sheets.  (Yeah, I know.  I’m an idiot.)  In the end, I slept with my head at the foot of the bed, and Evan slept curled up next to his dad.

 

Instead of writing a brilliant and cute post about Valentine’s Day and my husband’s remarkable gift of gift-giving, I am up before the boys, looking at a very interesting day, which includes a rainy day and an office STILL looking like the aftermath of a tornado on a paper factor or maybe just an IRS office.  Oh, and over 3/4ths of a turkey I’m not sure what to do with because I was too tired to carve completely yet.  Ugh.

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Missing Witch’s hat and Vomiting

I guess I should join the rest of the moms and talk about Halloween.  Unfortunately mine started the night before Halloween when I couldn’t find the witch’s hat for Evan’s costume, which means he believed he was a bat, a monster, a black knight.  Ok, whatever.  After my husband finally made it home, we loaded the kids in the car and went the city Halloween celebration, which was packed because we got there so late.  For some reason it felt like begging for candy and made my husband and I feel kind of weird.  Maybe it was all the kids with half-assed costumes (but that could have been valid reasons, right?), or maybe it was the fact that the lines became one giant line shuffling from store to store for one little piece of candy.  Any ways we left after an hour as Evan munched on candy.

 

He proceeded to munch on candy at home, asking one parent and then the other.  (Note: Must always ask the other parent if the child is asking for something.)  Then he told me he hid his candy when I told him no more.  It turns out he hid it in his mouth while he was hiding from me.  I found Starburst wrappers under the computer desk the next day. 

 

Then about 9:30 Evan started crying from his bed, and I ran up to chase away any monsters to find that he threw up.  Stupid candy.  Stupid husband who had to run an errand.  As I rushed around the room trying to figure out what to do first – clean the kid up, clean the sheets, shut the door, find the sheets – I silently cursed my husband.   Ok, grab towels and run the hot water for wash clothes.  Shut the door to keep Sean from waking up.  Dump the kid onto a towel on the floor.  Strip the child.  Murmur reassurances, and run to the bathroom to soak the washcloths in the now warm water.  Wipe down the child with more murmuring of reassurances, and quickly find any shirt (ANY SHIRT) to put the child in.  Put the child in the only other safe bed that he’ll stay in, mom’s and dad’s.  Then as you strip the bed you hear the garage door opening, and thank God he’s home.  Of course, the bed’s stripped and half made by the time the husband’s upstairs.  And being the kind hearted mother and wife, you have the husband soothe the child as you rinse the vomit out of the sheets in the kitchen and dump them on heavy load in the wash.  All the while, I have the following paragraph running in my head:

 

“Paloma, Patrick is throwing up!” I would tell her, and she would literally run to his room, clean the sheets, change his pajamas, spread a clean towel on his pillow, feed him ice chips, sing to him.  I would stand in the doorway, concerned, making faces at Patrick to cheer him up – the way my father did when I was sick and my mother was taking care of me. – Caitlin Flanagan, The Hell with All That: Loving and Loathing your Inner Housewife

 

Now you know why I hate her book so much.

 

Well, the night progressed with me coming to bed two hours later and catching Evan’s vomit in a bowl I had ready.  No, I didn’t want him to sleep in our bed because I didn’t want vomit in my hair.  But the pleas coming from both male occupants of the bed and the lucky catch made me agree.  And I was able to catch the vomit several more times and administer Motrin for the fever that ensued. 

 

So no ghost pancakes for Halloween, only ghost toast.  Sean enjoyed the roll up sandwiches to look like a back bone.  (Ok, I didn’t have my Halloween party; I need this.)  Evan instructed from the couch how I should cut the pumpkin as I wondered how I was going to get another witch’s hat.  As I put the boys to nap, missing my blog reading, as I talked on the phone to my old roommate and my best friend, I made brownies to shape into coffins, replaced the falling stars on the robe, and cleaned the living room and dining room up so trick-or-treating parents didn’t believe we lived in squalor.  When my husband came home to admit he forgot the hat and to assume child watching duties, I made broomstick breadsticks and a pizza with a cheese cobweb on it.  Did I ever mention I love Halloween?

 

We trick-or-treated early with Evan waving around a glow stick like a light saber.  Poor Evan was done after half a dozen houses, but Sean wanted to visit every house, so I had to hold him back.  I insisted on visiting our teenage babysitter’s house that’s two doors down.  (Yes, we are lucky, but she’s also young and extremely busy.)  There Evan gave every one the battery-operated tea lights that were decorating the house, insisting they will keep away monsters.  The mom was so thrilled by the idea of giving away the decorations she didn’t need and how cute Evan was, we ended up with a dozen of our own.  Yes, I find the lights cute.  With the safety of home, Evan stripped out of his costume and crashed on the couch.  But both boys had to greet every trick-or-treater, or “Halloween friends” as Evan called them, when ever the door bell rang.

 

At the end of the night, after the boys went to bed, the trick-or-treaters became teenagers.  Now I subscribe to my mother’s theory: better trick-or-treating than causing trouble.  So I loaded these teenagers up with candy.  Besides I had tons, and I am a recovering sugar addict.  Then when I went to bring in our jack-o-lantern so I could carve it up for breads, I noticed it was gone.  Those stupid teenagers!  Back in my day we had honor and would never steal decorations from a house who gave us candy, especially if it was loads of candy.  My husband didn’t understand why they would take it.  Oh, pumpkin smashing fun.

 

Oh, and yes, Evan is still sick, throwing up dinner from last night (he insisted on pizza, and yes, I’m an idiot for letting him eat it) and breakfast of peanut butter sandwiches (ok, I’m a slow learner).  It just better not be the flu.