During my last post, my dear, sweet friend, Tif, had taken over the care of J's 5 year old. My single compatriot told me, when I asked if James should be eating all those M&Ms, that that's the fun of hanging out with Auntie Tif, M&Ms and soda!
I wrapped up my brief blog entry from the Business Center of a lovely Courtyard Marriott, and off we went to figure out laundry and then lunch. All with James in tow.
We left James' Mom to sleep, or look after one of her other two children, ages 8 months and 3 years, found pregnant-Kath, and went out to lunch. Three adults and one child.
After much discussion and reflection, we decided to go to a restaurant the three of us used to frequent when we were in high school (this is boarding school, folks, and frequent is a relative term). It's a quaint little place with yummy sandwiches, and Tiffy bet it all that they would have PB&J for James. He wanted grilled cheese, and that's what he got.
La, la, la, ordering happens, drinks arrive - lemonade for James, soda and water for us, some potato skins (keep in mind, Tif and I are slightly hung over, Kath is pregnant, and battling fatigue - so we battle with food), and James declares: My tummy hurts.
In Tif's infinite wisdom, she asks James to come over and sit on her lap. We ask him if he needs to go to the bathroom (Kath-mommy-of 3.25-brilliance), but no. He says: I need to go home right now, my tummy really hurts.
There is a small, wet chirp, and then the volcano strikes! James, Tif, and our just-served-lunch are covered in chocolate vomit, along with my purse/knitting bag.
Paralyzing laughter ensues. Yes, that's how us strong, brilliant women react when faced with such trying circumstances.
The upshot: James felt much better. When Tif asked him in the bathroom if he thought he had to throw up any more, he replied: No! Did you see how much I threw up on you?! Tif drove the rental back to the Courtyard in her thong. I got to ride next to the volcano, and there was lots of laughter from all, including James.
PS: The knitting was fine. The bag smells like puke; I spent most of my time gingerly scrubbing the choco-puke off my new copy of Mason-Dixon Knitting. Thank goodness for disposable dust jackets.