There Would Be No Chicken Tacos On My Vacation. Chicken Tacos, In Fact, Might Now Be Forevermore Dead To Me.


My perfectly healthy twelve-year-old son went to bed last night at 9:00, after I had encouraged him to HURRY IT UP!  GET YOUR TEETH BRUSHED!  GET IN BED!  Because apparently when you’re twelve, you think that midnight is an okay time to crawl beneath the covers on a school night.

(This must wait until college.)

Since Thing 2 hadn’t napped yesterday, and since Thing 2 had traveled at a speed usually reserved for space shuttle launches all day yesterday, I put his little self into bed at 7:00 PM.  He didn’t argue.  He decided that maybe when you’re ten months old, an early-evening bedtime will be just fine, and thank you for the warm milk.

And so, with both boys finally in bed, MeMaw made the conscience decision to read until 11:00.  Oh, I didn’t say, “You know… I think I’ll read until precisely 11 PM tonight.”  No.  It wasn’t like that.  It was like, “Wow.  This is interesting.  I can do another chapter.”  And then it was, “Well, it’s 10:40.  I think I can pull one more chapter off.”  And that’s how it came to be 11:00 before I took my dentures out for the day, set my hearing aides on the bedside table, and dreamed about the prune juice in the fridge that I’d drink in the morning to keep me regular.

And do you know what I thought at 11:00 last night?  I distinctly remember thinking, “This may not have been a good idea.”

(The late bedtime, that is.  Taking the dentures and the hearing aides out at night is always a good idea, because MeMaw loses them in the bed otherwise.  I thought I should be clear.)

At 11:33… thirty-three entire minutes after I’d gone to bed… I woke up to the sound of puke happening.  It wasn’t just a little puke, either, but a full-on, let’s-get-rid-of-the-chicken-tacos-we-ate-for-dinner-in-a-violent-volcanic-eruption-that-the-neighbors-can-hear sort of puke.  It was the kind of explosion that we all fear might happen if Yellowstone National Park decides to blow.

The boy, apparently, was ill.

The 101-degree fever confirmed it.

By midnight, I was back in bed.  Back in bed with Hubs, who had never touched a toe to the floor, because PUKE!  PUKE!  PUKE!  Hubs said, “Well, THAT sounded nasty.”

Yes.  Yes, it was.  Chicken tacos are prettier on the table than they are in the toilet.

And then there was the MOM?  CAN I HAVE THE ELECTRIC BLANKET? at 12:30 this morning, which was followed by the MOM?  CAN I HAVE SOME WATER, PLEASE? at 1:30 this morning.  Which was followed by PUKING!  PUKING!  PUKING! at 4:30 this morning.  And then that was topped off with PUKING HARDER!  PUKING HARDER!  PUKING HARDER! at 5:00 this morning.

And then Thing 2 heard all the stomach unloading, seeing as how the boy’s bathroom is right between his room and his brother’s bedroom.  Thing 2 stood up in his crib and announced, “Well!  It’s a little earlier than normal, but I think I can manage!  I’m up!  I’m up, I’m up, I AM UPPPPP!!!”

There was a soak in the tub by the boy this morning to relieve the chills.  There was a MOM?  CAN I HAVE YOGURT? and MOM?  CAN I HAVE MY LITERATURE CLASS BOOK? and MOM?  COULD I WATCH A MOVIE NOW?  and MOM?  DO WE HAVE ANY CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP?

And then, not to be outdone, Thing 2 spent the morning sobbing.  I told him, “This is what happens to babies who get up at 5:00 in the morning; they cry all day.”  And Thing 2 said, “I can handle it.”

The thing is, Mama was having a hard time handling it.  Mama was online, looking for package deals on get-away vacations for mothers only, where mothers get to sit in a spa-like cabin in the woods, alone… where they can use the bathroom alone… where there is just blissful silence… and where they can read until 11:00 PM if they want to, and it will not be labeled as a BAD IDEA.

At 11:00 this morning, I was pretty sure I realized Thing 2’s issue:  THAT BABY HAD A BRAND NEW TOOTH!  Oh, yes!  One of his top teeth was finally through the gum.  He was a three-toothed little guy.  Mama clapped for him and cheered for him.  Thing 2 clapped, too, because Thing 2 never misses an opportunity to practice all the clapping.

And then Thing 2 spent the afternoon sobbing.  I told him, “I know you’re proud of that new tooth, but let’s just quit showing it off to Mama with that open-mouthed howl you’re doing, and let’s TAKE A NAP!”

Thing 2 declined a nap this afternoon.

He declined a nap seven times.

At 1:45 this afternoon, I was pretty sure I knew why.  Thing 2 had his fourth tooth!!

Oh, yes.  That baby went to bed with two teeth last night.  I know, because I checked!  And at 11:00 this morning, he had three teeth.  And at 1:45 this afternoon, he was sporting four.

And that, people, is how my day has panned out.

One puking boy, who has needed water, chicken noodle soup, the heating blanket turned up, the heating blanket turned down, the heating blanket turned back up, BUT ONLY TO MEDIUM THIS TIME, his book, some yogurt, his portable DVD player, a movie, another movie, and NO, THAT’S NOT THE MOVIE!  THE OTHER PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN MOVIE.

Thing 2 has cried.  And cried.  And gnawed on toys.  And opened his mouth wide to howl and show off his teeth.  He has chewed the side of his toy box.  He has chewed the side of the pots and pans drawer in the kitchen.  He has chewed the coffee table.  He has chewed my hand.  He has chewed everything he came into contact with because MY GUMS ACHE!  I’M EXPLODING TEETH OVER HERE!

Which is why, people, I have nothing to write about tonight.

I hope y’all will excuse me, while I go to bed now, seeing as how everyone else is FINALLY asleep.

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