January 23, 2009
Welp, I'm back from quick trip to Dallas, and what can I say? It was a good, old-fashioned, buttload of fun. I laughed, I snarfed, I inadvertently walked around the old neighborhood with a 12-inch booger on my shirt, and I saw (almost) everyone who I wanted to see. The weather was great, James and Maggie were A+ travelers, and in the span of five days there was only one case of emergency oral surgery. What more can a girl ask for?
We got into town late on Saturday afternoon, and as we stepped off the plane, even Maggie was taken aback by the sight of the sun. Well at least I think she was taken aback by the sight of the sun--you know, since the child has spent the greater part of her first three months in the dark confines of my uterus, the dark confines of winter in Maine, and WalMart.
On Sunday morning, I decided to take the kids to church at our old ward (that's Mormon speak for "congregation"). I wanted to hug my friends, show Maggie off a bit, and let them see that James still displays moderate-to-severe behavior problems every Sabbath morning. We walked into the building ten-or-so minutes late--because some things never change--and had to wait in the hall since they were already passing the sacrament (Mormon speak for "communion") in the chapel.
Lucky for me, my friends can't seem to tell time either, so while we waited in the hall I ran into all kinds of fabulous church goers--Cynthia, Tristina, Mary, Sarah, Carrie, Rob, and so on and so forth. We were standing around, chatting and laughing--reverently of course--when James tugged on my skirt and said, "Mom, my stomach hurts."
And being the awesome mother that I am, I was like, "That's nice, James."
And he was like, "Mom, it really hurts."
And I was all, "Not now James, Mommy's very busy talking about her episiotomy."
And then, he looked at me with some very troubled eyes and said, "Mom. My..."
Unfortunately, those were the only words he could muster up before he helplessly vomited all over my skirt, my legs, my shoes, the carpet, and the fabulous textured walls that run up and down both sides of the hallway.
Some friends laughed, some friends ran, Sarah stuck James's head in a trash can, and good ol' Cynthia sopped up the mess before I could even gather to wherewithal to process what had just happened. As she scrubbed the wall, Cynthia was like, "Man, you really don't make this stuff up, Amy."
No. No, I don't. It's all true.
I threw my shoes in the trash, and took James back to my friend Beth's house, where he spent the rest of the day hurling in the bushes, on the grass, on the dining room floor--but never once in the toilet.
There couldn't have been a more suitable way to say, "Hello, Dallas! I'm back!"
On Monday morning we went to the zoo. On Monday afternoon Beth's two-year-old son knocked out his front tooth at the park. On Tuesday he had oral surgery. And on Wednesday we flew back to Boston in a Beth-induced food coma.
Honestly, it was the most fun I've had in a long, loooong time. Friends are golden.