Okay, so this weekend my hubby went to our neighbor’s house for a little poker night, and at first I was like don’t wake my ass when you come home all stinkin’ drunk, stinkin’ of cigars and stinkin’ up the room with your farts at 2AM, and he was like I’ll TRYYYY not to, so I realized he would totally wake me up. Grrrr. And then he’d be snoring before his head even hit the pillow and I would basically lie there wanting to beat the crap out of him for the next two hours, so I told him to go ahead and prepare the guestroom downstairs and sleep there.
HUBBY: Yipppppppeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Uhhh, I mean, but I’ll miss you so much.
Liar. My husband would kill to sleep alone every night. I’m like why the hell did you get married anyway? And then I look in the mirror and I’m like oh yeah, that’s why. And then I look a little closer and realize I’m due for a mustache waxing and I’m back to wondering why he married me. But I digress.
Anyways, of course Holden pulled a douchebag move and decided to get sick that night. Seriously, you can pick any night to spike a fever and hack up a lung and you pick the night that your daddy is passed out downstairs where he can’t hear you? You totally did this on purpose, kid.
So I thought to myself, what would Alicia Silverstone do? And then I did the complete opposite. I held him far away from me facing in the other direction in case he puked and I loaded him up with Advil.
And then he woke up the next day and he was totally fine. Not hot, not even warm, I mean I shoved my lips against his forehead no fewer than seventeen times that morning to check and he seemed totally fine. And we had plans to meet friends downtown that I was planning to cancel but now I couldn’t decide.
ME: Do you think we should still go downtown?
HUBBY: I don’t know. What do you think?
ME: I think he’s okay. See, he’s playing with his train table.
HUBBY: Then let’s go.
ME: But do you think we should stay here so he can rest?
And so the conversation went back and forth and back and forth as I second-guessed our decision allllllll morning long until we were loaded in the car and ready to go.
(Insert a really fun time hanging out downtown here)
After spending an amazing morning with our friends, the hubby and I both announced how happy we were that we didn’t cancel our plans because it ended up being such a fun time.
ME: I’m soooo glad we decided to go!
HUBBY: Yup, and he didn’t seem sick at all!
Annnnnnd cue the throw-up. Seriously, saying “he didn’t seem sick” is basically like telling your kid to get sick.
HOLDEN: I don’t feel well.
FYI, this happened while we were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the middle of the highway barely out of the city.
You know those fire hydrants you see sometimes that have been opened up on hot days and the water shoots out in a huge-ass stream like Niagra Falls? Picture that. Only it wasn’t a fire hydrant. It was my kid’s mouth. And it wasn’t water. It was a giant slice of mostly-digested focaccia pizza he wolfed down forty minutes earlier.
ME: PULL OVER, PULL OVER!!! HE’S THROWING UP!!!!!
The hubby pulled over.
ME: NOT ON THE SHOULDER OF THE HIGHWAY!!! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!!!!
The hubby calmly pulled over at the next exit.
ME: OMG, THIS NEIGHBORHOOD IS TOTALLY SKETCHY!!!! DO NOT GET OUT OF THE CAR!!!
HUBBY: I have to get out of the car to clean him.
ME: No, you don’t! We can do it all from inside.
I said this as I climbed over the console and both rows of seats to reach into the trunk and find a box of wipes I knew was buried in there somewhere, but when I turned around I saw that the hubby was standing outside the vehicle with the sliding door WIDE open.
Oh, and did I mention he was sopping up vomit with his shirt which meant he was topless, and my husband is pretty much an albino so he was basically like a flashing lighthouse screaming to the whole F’ing neighborhood, LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME!!!! And I was freaking out just waiting for a gunshot to tear through him while he cleaned up throw-up. You know how when someone dies in a motorcycle accident or climbing Mt. Everest people say shit like, “Well, at least he died doing what he loves.” If my husband died at this moment it’d be more like, “It’s too bad he died doing what he hates, sopping up chunky throw-up from the minivan carpet.”
Well, 3,000 minutes later (that’s what it felt like) we were back in the car sans gunshots (a miracle) and headed back to the highway parking lot. They say all’s well that ends well. But this didn’t end well. This ended with me and my husband sitting up late that night cramming q-tips into the buckles of the car seat to try to clean up as much dried vomit as we could and then soaking all the seatbelts in vinegar and detergent and other shit for weeks because our minivan smelled like a puke mobile now. So if you see us driving down the highway with our heads sticking out of the windows and our jowls flapping in the wind like dogs, now you know why. Fun times.
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