Wherein I Am Sorely Tried

This weekend was the hardest trial of parenting yet. I'm not saying it won't get harder; I know I am but a naive waif on that score, but man, this was tough. And since many of you have read here how we fared for two weeks in a hotel room in China with a new baby, I'll have you know that this was harder. Why, dear Readers? Because in China, David and I were WELL. By some miracle, the two of us sailed through three cities, two and a half weeks, and seven plane flights with nary a sniffle or pang of stomachache.

We've been home nearly nine months, and while we've had our ups and downs, and one of the three of us has occasionally been under the weather, we've avoided that other certainty of life (along with Death and Taxes) that lurks where you least expect it: Food Poisoning.

Now, I don't know for certain how we contracted the dread FP. All I know is, Saturday afternoon we were having a grand time with friends at an outdoor social event, and by Saturday evening, something was rotten in the state of Denmark. "I think I'm going to throw up tonight," I told David. "Why do you say that?" "Because I haven't been hungry all day."

David looked skeptical. He asked if I was currently nauseous, and when I said no, his skepticism increased. Ah, you'd think after eight years in my company, he would know that a day in which I go longer than three hours without clamoring for a snack is indeed a sign of impending doom. But I have known myself longer than that, and I knew, Readers. I knew.

After dinner I threw up, right on schedule, and soon after David began complaining of stomach pains. Now, he's a very empathetic man, but since we'd eaten the same lunch, I was concerned. We both took to bed on the early side, forgoing a week's worth of TV stashed in our DVR.

In the morning, I felt even worse, and so did he. And here was the rub: a certain not-quite-two-year-old in residence was footloose and fancy free at seven a.m., and not the slightest bit interested in our gastric distress. Nope, not even a little. I have chopped up toddler meals when I'm falling over with exhaustion. I have changed poopy diapers when my head was as stuffed as a trussed turkey. But Readers, I have not done these things while wracked with waves of nausea. In fact, in all my years, I've done precious few things while in this state, a list of which can be concisely printed here:

1. Moaned
2. Groaned
3. Curled on the bathroom rug for hours at a time
4. Attempted to sleep, or at least to remain as still as possible

There you have it. My experience with nausea has been extremely self-centered, to say the least. There is no one else in the world when I feel the urge to vomit coming on. But now, suddenly, that is utterly, profoundly, No Longer True.

Jarrah was as perky as ever Sunday morning. She wanted a large breakfast. She wanted roughhousing on the rug. She wanted to play with blocks and hear stories. She was beyond miffed that no wholesome outing had been planned for her disportment. I thank my lucky stars that when I tossed her in the crib just before noon, over an hour before she usually goes down, she settled down to sleep immediately, and David and I both passed out for a blissful three hours in which, inexplicably, she didn't make a sound.

The sleep helped a bit, enough for me to think a family outing to the park would be a good idea. As we were preparing to go, I started feeling not quite right, and had the foresight to ask David to get me a plastic bag for the car. He returned with one that had a small hole. "It has a hole," I told him. "So don't use it," he responded. Clever man. But, again, sadly, with the not knowing me very well. I would never have asked for that bag if it hadn't really seemed necessary.

Sure enough, we'd just pulled onto the freeway when the bag became very necessary indeed. So necessary that Jarrah started screaming from the back seat, perhaps concerned that her mommy had met the Exorcist, or maybe just annoyed that I was drowning out "Victor Vito." At any rate, 2006 will go down as the year for many Firsts: First trip to China. First child. First romp in the ball pit. First episode of hurling in a moving vehicle. The latter is one I do not care to repeat.