As bad as it gets

Weak of stomach may want to click away.
Oh my. Yes, I am home. And I have all sorts of great pictures to share and stories to tell and shopping delights to show. But first, I challenge you to top my trip home.

On Monday we packed up and raced to the airport. Taylor and Blaine were on a different flight than Rog and I were. They were leaving first. Having been delayed at the car rental return, we were cutting it close. Just as Rebecca pulled up to drop them off, Rog barfed all over himself (and the borrowed carseat). Nice. Rebecca ran in with Tay and Blaine, hoping to help get them checked in on time. (The rude American Airlines lady finally let them on. Taylor nearly broke his back in the process of carrying Blaine while sprinting to the gate, but they made it.) Meanwhile, I stood outside the minivan in the busy unloading zone, trying to clean up the vomit. The police officer there was super nice. I told him what had happened and he just had me move the van up a little bit, and told me to go ahead and stay there until I got it cleaned up. Ironically, the mom in the minivan who drove past me was not as nice. She honked at me (I was so not in the way, by the way) and then yelled out her window, "You're not supposed to be blocking, stupid!" Really? Did I just get called stupid by a complete stranger? Some people are just nasty. I should have thrown the barf bag at her. (Not really. I am not a nasty person.)

Finally I had Rog changed and ready to go and Bec made it back to the van. We went to grab some lunch before my flight. After the nicest girl ever served us our Chik-fil-A sandwiches (that place is seriously the nicest fast food establishment imaginable), Bec asked her if we could have a couple extra bags. Nice thinking, Bec. She knew I was worried about Rog throwing up on the plane. Now I would be more prepared.

Our flight to Dallas was great. Uneventful. Rog napped. I hung out with my ipod. In Dallas Rog and I snacked and walked around and then boarded the plane for our long flight to Seattle. That's when the nightmare began. Right before take-off Roger started throwing up. Thankfully I caught it all easily in his green blankie and changed his clothes (again). By now I had used all the bags and outfits I'd thoughtfully planned that morning. I had one last diaper, a couple of wipes, and-thankfully- a Chik-fil-A bag. Rog wiggled for a long time, but finally settled down to sleep. Right about that time I started to feel a little sick. At first I thought it was because I didn't really eat dinner, but no. I was praying with all my might and breathing as deliberately as I knew how, but to no avail. With a sleeping babe on my lap, I reached for that Chik-fil-A bag and filled it myself. And, are you ready for this? Would you believe there was a hole in the bag? I am not making this stuff up, people. I had vomit all over me. Does it get any worse?! Thankfully I was seated in the exactly right place. I had an empty seat just next to me, and on both my right and left I had the most darling, sweet women imaginable. One of them rang for the flight attendant while the other took Rog (who, of course, woke up). I cleaned myself up, asked the flight attendant for a plastic bag, and apologized 97 times. I felt better. I thought. Shortly before the plane landed, though, I felt it again and hurled Rog at the girl on my right. I then proceeded to seriously puke my guts out. Thankfully I had a decent bag that time. I wanted to die of the pain and embarrassment. I had tears in my eyes as my sweet neighbor rubbed my back and played patty-cakes with Rog. Oh, and would you like to hear the worst part? (What? It gets worse?) After we landed I hung back, hoping to let everyone else off and get myself cleaned up. As the people behind me stood up, I heard them ask the flight attendant for a towel to clean up their carry on luggage with. Oh. My. Gosh. I looked over. There was my vomit. On this man's briefcase and his wife's backpack. It had gone through the crack in the seat. I could have died a thousand deaths! I looked up at the man. "I am so sorry, sir!" I whispered. He was gracious, but obviously disgusted (who wouldn't be?!). Actually, I think he thought it was from Rog's incident, which I happily let him believe. Then I picked up my baby, my backpack, my purse, and my barf bag, and marched off the plane with my head lower than Tom Dooley's.

I wanted to die. I wanted to stay in Seattle. No way was I getting on that next flight. But what was I really going to do? So after spending my entire layover in the family restroom (no details necessary), Rog and I shared some sierra mist and boarded the last plane. (Note: at this point it was midnight in Texas time and Rog had slept a total of 40 minutes all day. Bless his heart, he was such an angel through it all.) Don't worry, I totally barfed on that flight, too. Just sierra mist and bile. Mmmm. Nice. With a sleeping Rog in my arms, once again. Arriving in cool, breezy Medford couldn't have felt better. And the sight of Taylor, in his 3XL gray sweatpants, running in the airport to rescue his sickes, has never looked better. Worst. Day. Ever.

The next day Rog and I recovered while Blaine took his turn throwing up. Awesome. But I think we are all--finally--on the mend. I am exhausted. My house looks like Hiroshima. My to-do list is looming. We have an earwig infestation that is killing my flowers which annoys me to no end. But I am sooooo happy to not be throwing up in seat 27D, that I just don't care.

And now, after I just told you (and the entire world wide web) about the most horrifyingly embarrassing day of my life, will you indulge me in some self-promotion? Last night I read THIS, which flattered me, made me laugh hysterically, and seriously made my week. (Emily, you should have seen my great new outfit on the plane. Too bad it got covered in vomit.)