The Husband and I wanted to visit Boston. We only had one day without any obligations to the wedding. One day to squeeze in a week of vacation. Boston was our first choice.
Then a friend of The Husband, who was born and raised in Boston, told him that the boys would be completely bored with any of the historic stuff in Boston and we would spend the time trying to keep the boys occupied. He suggested Salem. Remembering the weeks of studying Salem’s history when I was a teen, I agreed. My parents and baby brother were staying longer in Boston and decided to join us.
I tried to pump up the boys telling them about the pirate museum. Tornado S ran around the hotel room, yelling “Yo-ho!” Tornado E wasn’t convinced. I mentioned the witch museum, grasping at straws. I had forgotten that Tornado E was a witch last Halloween, and he jumped around, talking about witches and wizards.
We ended going to a pirate museum and two witch museums that were run by the same company. The Husband had looked at the reviews the night before, worried about the negative reviews. The negative reviews were right; I wouldn’t call these museums. They were more like walking through a wax museum as each museum had rooms filled with manikins positioned to act out scenes. We were walked through the tour by different guides who were knowledgeable and entertaining. In the end, we were entertained and learned something. Though I decided after watching a scene form “a trail” (which looked and sounded a whole lot like a scene from “The Crucible” to the point I swear it was from the play word for word) and hearing what the scenes were in the museum, I decided the boys did not need to have a look through the witch dungeon. At the end, we spent a couple more hours there than we had planned, since we were hoping to catch a glimpse of Boston history that day.
We ended up not getting to Boston, staying at a hotel just outside the city. After dinner, where Tornado S learned to say “Appabee’s,” charming the wait-staff, we found a park on the map. We took the boys, letting them run off their energy. My mom spied an ice cream shop just passed the park, and we went to satisfy our curiosity and sweet tooth. The Husband, being a generous father, let Tornado E pick his own ice cream out, which was bubblegum. In his defense, The Husband had no idea that there was real bubblegum in the ice cream.
When we got to the hotel room, The Husband fell asleep immediately; while, I tried to get the boys to sleep without much fuss, fighting, or giggling. Nothing like sharing a double bed. In desperation, I rolled a towel up, length wise, and placed it between them, commanding not to stray over the towel with dire consequences.
About two-thirty in the morning, I was awoken by a strange sound that I couldn’t place. The Husband sprung from the bed, yelling for me to grab something because Tornado S was vomiting. Apparently Tornado S doesn’t cry when he throws up but makes a gentle heaving sound that barely pierces my deep sleep. I ran to the bathroom, grabbing a towel because we didn’t have anything else. We held Tornado S over the towel until he was finished. Then I cleaned him up, putting on a new shirt, and he fell asleep. I washed out the towel as best I could and returned to bed.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard the heaving noise. I sprang across the bed, grabbing the towel that laid in between the boys. I held Tornado S over it, noticing that Tornado S was still sleeping as he emptied more of his stomach. When Tornado S was finished, I went back to bed, leaving the towel folded up near Tornado S, ready for more.
The Husband: What do you think is wrong with Tornado S?
Me: Dessert to close to bedtime. Two nights before we left, Tornado S threw up because my dad fed him three cookies, a piece of pie, and some Papi candy. Tornado S will be fine. He doesn’t even have a fever.
The Husband was content and was snoring to wake the dead within seconds. The Husband is notorious for his snoring. His friends believe I’m a saint. His snoring usually doesn’t bother me because I’m a heavy sleeper. Not this night. I lay awake for twenty minutes wondering if I put a pillow over him if it would quiet him enough for me to get some sleep or would that be murder and if he did accidentally die could I claim lack of sleep and frustration over vacation as an insanity plea or would this be manslaughter.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was waking up to a thump and crying. It was four-thirty, and Tornado E had rolled out of bed, hitting his head on the night stand. The Husband swore and picked Tornado E up, depositing him into our bed so I could soothe him. Unlike the last hotel, this one didn’t have cheap chairs I could have moved around to make a gate to keep Tornado E from rolling out. I had hoped my son had grown out of thrashing so much. I was wrong.
A half an hour later, I was woken up by the screaming of the alarm as well as The Husband trying to fight it. I hate beeping of alarms. The Husband hates alarms. I got up, went around the other side, removed the alarm from the monster paw, trying to bat it to death. I shut off the alarm.
Me: Leaving Boston at 9am. Brilliant.
The Husband muttered something incoherent that I chose to ignore than speculate on the negative reaction to my sarcasm. He tried to roll over and sleep again.
Tornado E vomited all over my side of the bed. The Husband thought it was a good time to get up. We calmed down Tornado E and cleaned him up. He stopped crying and looked at us.
Tornado E: Daddy’s funny. Why’d he do that to the alarm?
Me: Because Daddy’s not a morning person. How do you feel?
I took a quick shower to come out dressed to find that Tornado E was crying because he had pooped his diaper. (He still wears pull-ups at night.) The Husband shrugged, still trying to comfort Tornado E. I checked. It was a little diarrhea. I calmed him down and changed him into underwear. As I turned to finish packing, Tornado E vomited again. I grabbed the last towel. This did not bode well for our flight. I packed the last pull-up into the diaper bag next to the last underwear of Tornado E’s.
The Husband: What are we going to do?
Me: We’re going to buy crackers when we fill up on gas. I’m going to give him Mylocon drops in hopes that it can help settle his stomach.
We finished getting ready and began our trek to the Boston airport, stopping to get gas and crackers. Tornado S refused food. I should have guessed. As we drove down the last freeway heading towards the airport, GPS being unreasonable helpful, Tornado S throw up, and there was nothing to catch it. Luckily there wasn’t anything left in his stomach.
When we got to the rental place, I took Tornado S into the bathroom to strip him and dress him. I also found out that he too had diarrhea. Awesome. We came to the unanimous decision to check Tornado S’s car seat and use Tornado E’s as we had learned coming in that air regulations does not allow for a car seat on the aisle. Siblings should not be trusted next to each other on a long, cranky airplane ride. We had already decided I would sit in the middle this time and have Tornado E out of his car seat.
I won’t go into the other gory details of the diarrhea. I’ll just say that poor Tornado E was horrified that he leaked. In the end, I had to put him into a Tornado S diaper in Dallas. In the hour we waited during our lay over and boarded the next plane, I had to change Tornado S three times. He did not leak. By that time, I dreamt of getting home, filling the baby pool, stripping the boys, and letting them live outside in the back yard for the rest of the day. Never mind the 109 degrees with no shade. Never mind this was our thunderstorm season. I was done.
Faemom 