I even volunteered to pick him up in Baltimore. I figured it would give Little One a chance to take a good long nap in the car. Of course, Little Miss decided as we were walking out the door that She was starving. After feeding Her and hitting two-accident, construction-lane-closing traffic on the way, we ended up getting there a bit later than planned. A bit too close to the time Little One's fever medicine would start wearing off.
As we pulled up the the curb, Little One croaked from the back seat, "M-mommy! POtty!"
So my dad was greeted by me jumping out of the car and- hi, nice to see ya- "where is the nearest bathroom? I see it! I see it! I have to go in, can you just...you know. I'll be back."
I grabbed Little One and left him with the baby (starting to wake up, getting hungry) curbside by baggage claim. I wrapped Her toasty little body around me and hauled it. We got there in time, but by then She was crying. She was HOT. She was red all over, Her tears were hot. The lymph nodes in Her neck were swollen so that She looked like a crazy body-builder, with no neck at all. Just chin connected to clavicle. She couldn't turn Her head. "ouchie ouchie Momma! Ou-cheeeee!" She cried.
I ran Her back out and buckled Her in while showering promises of home and medicine soon. She tried to perk up for Grandpa, but She felt too bad. "I'm jus', jus' hur-ten a wittle bit guys" She whimpered.
By the time we got on the freeway, Little Miss was wide awake and ringing Her dinner bell with all Her might. We were in the thick of rush hour. We were 40 minutes from home. Triage.
I decided that we really, really needed to get home to where the medicine was, so I kept driving and hoping they would both fall back to sleep.
No dice.
Finally, with one girl crying Her heart out and one screaming Her head off, I pulled over. Just as I was slowing into a parking spot, I heard a funny noise. One of those noises that, even though I had no idea what it was, sent the message "oh, crap" zinging through my brain.
My dad heard it too. He turned around. He said, "Oh! Uh oh. UH OH!!" and lunged for the back seat.
I parked just in time to see him yank a blanket off a car seat and use it like a giant catchers mitt. To *try* to contain the extremely copious amount of (gross alert) projectile vomit spewing from Little One like an open fire hydrant.
For a moment, I just sat there.
Miss is still screaming like crazy. There is now puke ev.er.y.where. EVERYwhere. Little One is gagging on it. Triage?
I'm sorry this was dad's welcome to his visit with us. But I am also, selfishly, extremely glad that he was there. The man had a career in EMS; "disaster management" is actually part of his job title. He went into chief mode, and I followed along.
Little One was soaked literally head to toe in puke. It was now cold, windy, and starting to rain. The poor thing, shaking with chills already, had to stand naked in the icy wind and be rubbed down with wet wipes. She was not having fun. NOT.
Dad put her in one of his T-Shirts while I fed Little Miss and then bailed the vomit out of Little One's car seat like a sinking canoe. I did my best to clean it up, but I can tell you the aroma was just delightful to ride home with.
At last we did make it. I spent most of the rest of the day cleaning the car. And our clothes. And the children. I had to get a screwdriver and actually take apart Little One's car seat to get at all the places the nastiness had trickled into. You know. I think that this parenting job should require hazmat training as a prerequisite. And they should send you home with one of these:
Or at least a box of latex gloves. Children are not for the faint of heart. Or stomach.
But more on that next time...
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