Fire...barfs

Owen has a barfing sickness.
In spite of this, we had a lovely day in San Diego with Sharon, Clayton and Amy.

How can both things be true, you ask? Well, given that Owen was sick Monday and Tuesday, then I was home with Mr. Bites on Wednesday, and spent a good chunk of the day with him at daycare yesterday, even though he seemed a little under the weather this morning ("Oh, I think he barfed because I jostled him when I picked him up", says Keith and I agree. What were we thinking?) I was NOT sitting in our house today. So: we headed south with zero traffic into lovely San Diego weather.

We hit the kids science center, played a bit, then grabbed lunch. This was when Owen, looking punkier by the second, pukes huge volumes of vomit all over me and the ground next to us. I felt very sad for the diners around us, but more sad for Owen...and then also a lot sad for myself completely covered in baby vomit. We headed back to S&C's house for clean-up.

The boy felt a bit better after that, played a bit, we really enjoyed the day overall. I know Owen will be ok, and I managed to get in some good quality snuggles even if they were slightly anxious is-my-baby-really-ok snuggles. We ate an amazing dinner. Owen barfed again, looked awful, we headed home, he barfed about 5 more gallons when we walked in the door, and now he's sleeping (on his SIDE) while I vent in this blog that is now becoming my personal vent-all journal.

What the hell? I almost hope no one reads this for awhile because I'm so ridiculously obsessed with this shittiest of weeks and every movement that my kid makes. Sick, biting, daycare-shadowing, puking. I realize that any other mother reading this is thinking "Welcome to motherhood, Lo" and you'd be right. Welcome indeed. We've been relatively lucky to be spared the barfing sickness (it's true: this morning was the first time Owen ever really vomited). But this week I feel like, up to now, motherhood has been like holding a baby while driving in a slightly rickety convertible - I'm not entirely comfortable that everything will always go smoothly and that I always have a grasp on things, and most of the time my hair is a disaster but I don't care because I'm having so much fun. But this week, someone took away the windshield, and oh, also the steering wheel and tires, so I'm carreening along in this bumpy rickety car getting bugs in my teeth and vomit on my pants and I have no idea how to steer or where we're going.