Even the best-laid plans can by thrown off by a kid with a nasty stomach bug. Our first indication that something was wrong came when we were four blocks away from a Ravenswood pizza place we'd been meaning to try. We heard a gagging sound coming from the backseat, and Z had her fist in her mouth. Seconds later, the first stream of vomit arched over her pink jacket. Then the second wave.
We don't pack spare clothes anymore, so Josh turned the car around and headed toward a more commercial strip to look for a place to pick up a new outfit. I immediately spotted an upscale kiddie boutique and we pulled into a parking space nearby. Baby wipes and coat removal got rid of the biggest chunks, and I carried Z into the chi-chi clothing store where I made a beeline to the sale rack. Forty-seven dollars later (gulp!) Z was freshly dressed in a brown corduroy dress and cream-colored tights and we made it to Spacca Napoli, where one of Josh's freelance friends was waiting for us. Z didn't want to eat the unfamiliar-looking pizza, but she happily munched on cheese and animal crackers.
My lovely green couch and I got the chance to wear said snacks, plus a full sippy cup of milk a couple of hours later.
Then, after one hour and two sippy cups full of watered-down apple juice, my loveseat got the upchuck treatment.
Two hours after that, Z demanded a peanut butter and honey sandwich and milk, which I reluctantly gave her. Then, when my doula stopped by to say hello and drop off a book and CD, Z blew chunks all over the front porch.
Needless to say, we sent Josh to the Chavurah party alone. My evening was a dance of laundry, paper towels, rags and cuddles. And the Peter Pan DVD.
