We were ALL ready to start loading up the van to head down to Chicago for a day of shopping and a fun night at the Palmer House Hilton before continuing on to Michigan to celebrate Thanksgiving with my Italian in-laws. When all of a sudden, Super Boy puked.
Not in the bathroom, as Mommy always tells him to do if he feels sick, but right outside the bathroom.
I think some of it splattered into the bathroom though, if that counts.
I'm a huge emetophobe. For those of you who don't know what that is, see this.
So anyone in my household (or hell, in my STATE) who vomits instantly sparks enormous fear and panic in me. I start having sympathy nausea. I start feeling sick myself. I become convinced that I am going to - and actually start a countdown to the point when I - get sick. It's awful. It's no way to live.
And my poor baby.... As soon as he was done puking (he did manage to make it to the toilet for the last little bit), he started crying (as do I), and then when we said we weren't going to go to Chicago & Michigan, he said, "No, I feel better now! I do!"
Poor kid. I hate seeing him sick.
So while the rest of you, dear readers, are enjoying delicious, tender turkey and/or succulent ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing and any other delicious culinary delights that you partake in as part of your celebrations, I will be vigilantly waiting for my stomach flu to kick in, and probably cleaning up after Super Boy as he forges a trail of vomit through my house.
Aren't you jealous?