Thursday morning came and we did not get on a plane. The luggage was still half packed on my bedroom floor. Alllllllllll of my warm weather outfits went untouched. My bathing suit still has the tags on and will probably be returned.
Instead of putting the final touches on our trip prep on Wednesday night, I watched Gabe throw up all over himself and our couch. Then throw up all over our bath tub and our bathroom floor and walls. And then Kamel and I spent the next two hours alternating between holding him, doing loads and loads of vomit laundry, wiping up floors and upholstery, while also canceling flights, haggling refunds, canceling hotels, the rental car, and on and on.
We spent Thursday and Friday cleaning up our vomit covered house, running Gabe to the doctor, dealing with toddler diarrhea and the smells, my god the smells, checking fevers, administering Tylenol, and praying we wouldn’t get it. The upholstery was disinfected by professionals, the bathroom rug and towels and pillow cases were all washed three times. It took me 3 days to fully unpack us all, to unpack the luggage that had gone nowhere. And we all went back to work on Monday.
Because sometimes, on the eve before a big trip, the longest trip to anywhere we have booked since our honeymoon, where we’ve made plans to take an air-boat through the everglades, to spend afternoons on the beach with family, etc… etc. Sometimes the night before all of that your kid throws up all over your house and you have to play the parent card.
Sometimes kids ruin everything.
Sometimes being an adult means NOT sucking it up and throwing everyone in the car at 445am the next day and forcing a 6 hour flight from hell. Sometimes it means saying no and making good choices for other people even though it means your big floppy sun hat will probably stay in the closet for another year.
Sometimes it’s all in the timing.
And thank god it didn’t happen on the plane. Because toddlers give you no warning. They just projectile vomit like a fire hose. In his eyes, in his ears, down his shirt, in his shoes. Thank god it didn’t happen 12 hours later.
But it means we’re not in Miami. We’re not seeing family. My weekend and the two days off I kept were spent problem solving and pushing fluids and washing my hands and moping around the apartment.
And Gabe was sick and now he’s better and we’re still here when we should be there. And that’s just what happens sometimes. That is parenthood.