by Patti
So we're back from vacation.
Yes, it was amazing.
Yes, it was the kind of relaxing that leaves the limbs all jello-y and loose and totally useless, but hey - tan!
Yes, it ended too soon.
But at least we had it, right?
I mean, I can't really complain; I was here:
And it was crazy beautiful, especially when this kind of stuff just happens to be casually hanging out all over the place like it's no big deal:
And how could I possibly forget the day we visited the boys and girls at the orphanage to deliver the bats, balls and jerseys we had collected to donate to them? There is nothing like seeing these grateful little faces to put it all into perspective.
The nights of our vacation were no less wonderful. After all, night swimming next to the Caribbean sea is kind of magical.
Although I have absolutely no problem saying that this business right here? IS SO NOT MAGICAL.
Despite that one small snafu of a tarantula the size of my head, it was magical.
Until: I started feeling a little weird the day before we left, and I spent most of that day all (TMI ALERT) diarrhea-ish, body ache-ish, and generally blah-ish. I let M twist my achy arm into going to the beach since it was our last full day in paradise, and even the water hurt my skin. So we headed back to the house, all burned and sandy, and after a quick shower, I hit the bed. At 4 pm. And slept until 7 pm. I felt slightly better, so I had my arm twisted once more into heading out - this time to eat ice cream at the marina, and to people watch. I went to bed that night and sweated out whatever weird bug had invaded my body, and woke the day we were going to leave feeling much better.
That afternoon, we hopped a flight to Miami, a contrast of tanned yet long-faced, and just like that, we landed and it was time to go through the whole hoopla of customs and "follow the yellow dots" and can I just say how much I loathe the Miami airport? It is a veritable hell hole of international crazy is what it is.
But we got through it and made it to our connecting flight to Chicago with 15 minutes to spare. Home. Almost Home.
The moment we boarded the plane, it started to POUR outside. The rain slammed horizontally against the giant airport windows, and I could see ominous black clouds swirling overhead. Lighting danced dangerously over the runway, and all I could think was, "Really? We are going fly in THIS?" So I asked the flight attendant as she glanced at our boarding passes, "Really? We are going fly in THIS?" and she smiled reassuringly at me, telling me in that soothing Flight Attendant Voice that HELL NO we were not going to fly in this. I turned to M as we shuffled down the narrow aisle. "Watch. We are going to sit in this plane for hours now."
Three hours and two screaming babies and five restless kids and nine shushing moms and 200 cramped and sweaty and annoyed passengers later, we were finally given clearance to take the skies.
By the time we landed in Chicago, it was well after midnight, and we seemed to be the only people in the airport. We wandered, ghost-like, to the baggage claim, and waited with the few other delirious passengers seeking out their luggage. We finally had our bags in hand, and headed for the taxi stand to hop a cab home. We were in line a good 10 minutes when S almost politely tapped my arm. "Mom?"
"Yes?"
"I feel throw-uppy."
I know S well enough to know that her "I feel throw-uppy" proclomations very rarely provide enough time to get to a toilet. They usually mean, "I'm about to blow - RIGHT NOW!" So I plucked her from the cab line, leaving M with all of our luggage, and rushed S to the nearest cigarette ash-rimmed garbage can. As travelers wandered by, she leaned her gagging head into the abyss, and between hurls, she looked up at me, her eyes watery and pathetic, and cried out, "IT STINKS IN HERE!"
A random passerby kindly handed me some paper towels, and I splashed water on them from a water bottle I'd been holding. I used one to mop S's sweaty face, and cleaned the rim of the garbage can with the other while simultaneously rubbing her heaving back with my spare hand. Yes! I spontaneously sprouted a third hand out of sheer necessity! I occasionally looked over at M, who was doggedly holding our place in line and guarding our luggage. Teamwork! S finally got it all out, but then she looked at me, her eyes urgent. "MOM! IT'S COMING OUT THE OTHER END!" So we rushed into the airport, past the zombied-out late-night stragglers, and high-tailed it into the bathroom. She made it to the toilet, where she shivered violently on the seat as she de-bugged her poor little body.
Nearly an hour after her "I feel throw-uppy", we were finally in a cab. I met the cab driver's eyes in the rearview mirror, and I could see him suspiciously eyeing the plastic bag I was holding near S's face as she leaned weakly against me. "She car sick?"
"No...she has a stomach bug."
"$50 fine if she throw up in car."
"Isn't that just for drunk people?" M asked, as if trying to negotiate.
"No. $50 if anybody throw up in car."
I held the bag closer to S's face and kissed the top of her head, praying I would be an effective vomit catcher.
Miraculously, we made it home with nary a vomit or a poop, and we wearily unloaded our bags from the cab, standing wobbily in front of our house, unbelieving that we were actually home. M had parked his car in front of our house, and he opened it to throw in a duffel bag. "SOMEBODY STOLE MY STEREO!"
Of course. OF COURSE. After a stormy three hours stuck on a plane on a tarmac, and a violent vomit and poop festival at the airport, why wouldn't M find that his car had been broken into?
At that very moment, I felt my entire week of vacation leak out of me, right there on the street. After all, when it rains... it pours.
