Last night, Diana and I put Elijah down to bed and celebrated Vacation Eve in the traditional manner, by eating tacos and splitting a bottle of super expensive wine. Diana went to bed early, knowing full well getting the boy on an airplane was going to be a major challenge. I, on the other hand, decided that playing Guitar Hero in the basement was the best way to usher in our first vacation in two years.
Around 10pm, I heard Diana call for me. I thought I was in trouble for playing video games instead of getting the rest needed to survive O’Hare, so I ran upstairs wearing my “sorry” face.
I found Di rocking Eli, who was moaning creepily. I grabbed him and he was on fire. The thermometer hit 103.5 and rising before Eli kicked it out of his butt. We called our doctor, who said we had two choices: ER or first doctor appointment in the morning. Both choices involved missing our flight to Mexico, so we (Diana) decided to rock the crying guy all night at home instead of the scary ER.
After two hours at the doctor, which included Eli hyperventilating with rage at having a tongue depressor stuck down his throat, the doctor decided it was the Romanian Flu. The only way to catch it is from Romanian babysitters. Marianna!
The good news is the doc said he’s get over it in a couple days and he was cleared to fly to Mexico. So we’re going to try again tomorrow morning. Di’s mom was also given a clean bill of health and will join us in her original nanny status.
Which is good because I’m starting to feel like crap. Marianna!
p.s. Does it make me a bad person that I almost liked Eli being sick because he spent an hour hugging me this morning?
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