I never leave the house, and therefore I never get sick. However, for Thanksgiving, I was forced to leave the safety of my abode to travel to the faraway and dangerous city of Denver, filthy with germs and giant Ikea signs. Lo and behold, I returned home with a Denver disease. (My family swears that none of them were around any sickos, but I'll bet it was one of my sister's 2nd graders with their wee beady eyes.)
Being sick with a baby is not fun, primarily because said baby still expects to be fed. The nerve! So little Allie got a lot bottles for two days, as I didn't relish the memory from her first day of life of nursing and puking simultaneously. But baby refused to take a bottle three different times. She missed me. How sweet! And she is apparently as finicky and opinionated as her father.
The height of my sickness came when my doorbell rang on Sunday. Mike was out, and I just can never resist the temptation of answering the front door. To me, it's like the temptation of a dozen chocolate truffles sitting neatly in their box, teasing me with what might be inside. The compulsion to find out what's inside and outside is just too great. It could be two burly men wearing black masks on my doormat, and I still wouldn't be able to resist opening the door. I have an addiction to chocolate and the doorbell. On Sunday, it was not men in black, but my neighbors whom I've never met (except to throw their son's ball back over the fence occasionally).
As I opened the door and saw it was them, I regretted not flattening down my frizzy bed-head pony tail and my sicko wardrobe for the day - head to toe black spandex. They wanted to report that they'd seen a suspicious man poking around in our back yard and taking pictures of our house over the holiday. (Scary! The intruder better not come to the front door, or I'll...open it.) As they talked and told the story, I got droopier and droopier. My face got greener and greener. I started to slump against the door frame. They kept talking. I tried to think of some way to communicate that I'd better go, but I didn't fully have my wits about me.
They kept talking. I kept drooping. Then finally, she offered their names - "Well, we're Heather and Eric if you ever need anything." And rather than saying, "Oh, thanks. My name is Amber. So nice to meet you. Thanks for coming by!" I say, "OKthanksnicetomeetyoubye," and slam the door as quick as I can.
And then without a quarter of a second's delay, I proceed to puke the quart of water I had just downed right in my doorway. Right on my bare feet. And let me tell you. A quart is a lot. It took many loud heaves to get out. Poor Heather and Eric were still just inches away with just a thin white slab between us and no doubt privy to my various gutteral exclamations.
On their way back to their house, they would have had to walk past the front window where they would have had yet another full view of me in all my puketronic glory. But I didn't see if they peeked or not because I was busy. After it was all done, I knew not what to do. I don't keep towels in the foyer. I was covered, frizzed head to bare toes in black spandex and vomit. Eventually, I simply tip-toed to the nearest towel, leaving vomit footprints across our lovely living room.
I love first impressions. I went over yesterday to apologize, once I saw their kitchen light was turned on for the night.
They didn't answer the door. (Surely they were just in the bathroom...)
Lovey Mike thoroughly sanitized his precious doorway tiles. I'm just preparing him for fatherhood. He says it was 1/4 inch deep in a 5'x8' foot passage. The next night, we had small group. (Well, Mike had small group; I hid in my room.) Mike just couldn't resist...He greeted guests in the foyer, and as they stood on the precious tiles told them all about what had just been done to them the day before. I don't know if they'll want to come back.
The upshot of all this is: I lost 5 pounds! No doubt all water, but it makes this mom who is still in maternity jeans feel mighty fine.