Drunk On Ice Cream

We went to Florida to answer a simple question:  How much ice cream is too much ice cream?  Luca happily agreed to be our research subject.

About mid morning, we would indulge our children in poolside ice cream treats.  Luca is a boy who knows how to eat ice cream.  This child would smear chocolate all over his face and stomach like a sticky moisturizer.  Afterwards, as a courtesy to us, he would leap into the pool to wash off. 

There would usually be another ice cream mid afternoon and then we would walk the ½ mile up the beach for dinner, with the hope of an ice cream for dessert.  One night we ended up at a restaurant called “Nervous Nelly’s.”  Why was Nelly nervous?  Well, the three year old vibrating at table 8 had consumed three pounds of vanilla that day.

After a yet another meal of macaroni and cheese (our secondary research involved how much processed cheese one child can consume), Luca ordered a sundae.  By the time he finished he was absolutely hammered.  He was jacked on the sugar sauce.  For a minute, I wondered if the waiter had slipped a little rum in there.  Luca spoke a mile a minute, chattering about stuff drunk people chatter about.  Like starting a band or opening a wine shop.  He got up and danced to the hilarious awful cover duo with his mother.  It was all I could do to keep him from leaping into the ocean.

And as suddenly as it began, Luca crashed.  Hard.  As we finished our beers, Luca fell asleep in his propped up hand.  He slurred his words.  And on our walk home, he asked that we just, you know, lay down on the beach and, like look at the stars and stuff. 

Diana ended up carrying him most of the way home and he slept the innocent sleep of an addict.  

Hotel Fire

This was a great vacation.  We reconnected as a family.  We laughed.  We ate terrible, terrible things.  We saw an amazingly bad/good/bad cover band duo.

But this will go down in history as Luca’s best vacation of all time.  Why?  Because our hotel had a fire.

It was bedtime.  Elijah and I were staring into my computer on the couch while Diana and Luca wrestled in the bedroom.  Suddenly, the speaker on our ceiling started blaring. 

A pre-recorded voice shouted, “There is an emergency at the hotel.  Please evacuate immediately.  Elijah, please completely freak out.  Luca, assume the role of savior.” 

Or something like that.

I assured everyone that this was most likely a false alarm, but we should do what the recorded voice says.  Giant tears began streaming down Elijah’s face.  As we walked, I repeatedly told him this was nothing.  Nothing to be scared of.  He was okay.  I almost didn’t notice Luca, who was shouting instructions at the top of his lungs.

“Everyone!  There is an emergency!  EMERGENCY!  Get out of the hotel!  Don’t use the elevators!  Use the stairs!”

As we entered the stairwell, there were other guests of the hotel, trying get out.  Luca screamed at them to get out now.  Do not use the elevator (which was easy since they were already in the stairs).  I tried shushing Luca so he didn’t scared the crap out of the guests, but he was in full firefighter mode.

We made it outside and the hotel manager told us someone in the kitchen overcooked some rice and set off the alarm.  The local fire department had to come shut it off.

And then Luca’s night got even better.  The Ft. Meyers fire department arrived in a big red truck.  Two massive firemen came out and did their job.  Luca swooned.  The larger, friendlier one took notice of this small boy who had lost his voice due to instruction screaming and asked if he wanted to sit in the truck.

A tiny squeak came out of him as way of acceptance. 

To top it off, the giant men gave Luca the same plastic fire helmet he’d received at least three other times from other firemen.  But this one was special.  It was given in the line of duty.

Yellcation

Three nights ago, I was really giving Elijah and Luca the business because they were bailing water out of the tub like it was a leaky dingy.  While I caught my breath, Elijah said, “Dad, when you yell at us like that I’m afraid you don’t love me any more.”

Game.  Set.  Match.

That night, I vowed not to ever yell at them again.  Ever.  Ever.  That is going to be Diana’s job from now on. 

Luckily, I had an opportunity for a fresh start because we were going on vacation in Florida!  Grandpa Ed and Grandma Connie were extra extra generous for Christmas so we used their gift to fly everyone to The Pink Shell Resort for 4 days.

I made it through the flight without so much as raising my voice.  Partly because the boys are at a stage where they know how to sit in a seat for 2 hours and partly because some angel invented the portable DVD player.

We arrive in Florida and I could literally feel my blood pressure drop.  This whole not yelling thing was going to be a snap.  Of course you can have ice cream for breakfast.  Of course you can jump on the bed.  Of course you can take your pants off and press your genitals against our pool facing windows.

But run by the pool?   No.  No running by the pool.  Luca.  No running by the pool.  Luca.  Luca!  LUCA!  NO RUNNING BY THE POOL!!!!!!

Well, I made it almost 24 whole hours.  No amount of yelling could convince Luca to slow down by the pool.  He seemed to believe the only way to move at the resort was at Carl Lewis speed. 

Aaand of course, he biffed on the pool deck.  Hard.  The back of his head hitting the tile sounded like a bowling ball falling from three floors. 

I immediately scooped him up and held him slash admonished him.  Held.  Admonished.  Held.  Admonished.  As I whispered in his ear, I felt something warm cascading down my leg.  While he cried, Luca whizzed all over me.  Soon, I was standing in a Luca created puddle.

I carefully held him and wadded into the pool to wash the urine off us both.  It wouldn’t be the first time that pool had Luca urine in it by a long shot.  I asked him if he was okay. 

He responded by shouting across the crowded pool to his mother, “Mama!  I pee peed on Wick!”

I vowed not to yell at them for another 25 hours.

Barf In 3D

After the puking incident on New Year’s Eve, I figured Elijah had gotten it out of his system.  Get it?  Out of his system?  It being puke?  And his system being his system?

Anyhoo, we spent most of the day on the 1^st destroying the house.  We had an extra member of the destruction crew since Diana had a rare day off from the wine store.  I couldn’t stand to look at the house one more minute, so rather than actually do any cleaning, I suggested we go watch “Monster’s Inc.” in 3D.

Now, this should technically be an official “First” for Luca.  But Eli decided he couldn’t allow me to actually do a blog post about his brother so he decided to barf ½ way through the running time.

Now, I did allow him to drink 24 ounces of red punch.  And I did allow him to eat a large thing of buttered popcorn.  And I did allow him to eat a pound of Gummy Bears.  But I am going to chalk this up to his coughing fits.

Over the digitally enhanced voices of Sulley and Mike Wazowski, I distinctly heard the pitter patter of barf hitting the already sticky floor of the Evanston theater.  I turned to see Eli filling his lap with the combination of last paragraph’s ingredients.  I immediately tried to catch the barf in a popcorn bag.  But he somehow managed to completely miss the bag and decorate the seat ahead of us.

A little voice inside my head said, “Run!” and I grabbed Eli and headed for the exit.  Diana and Luca followed closely behind.  Luca shouting at the top of his lungs, “Eli puked!  Eli puked!”

We paused just outside the theatre and I realized we had forgotten Eli’s coat inside.  I pretended to dab a corner of Eli’s puke covered shirt and said to Di, “Can you go get his coat?  I’m trying to clean him up here.”

Yes, I was sending Diana back into a theater that now smelled distinctly like our son’s barf.  But I’m a coward.  There.  I admit it.

Diana made it back without being lynched and we high tailed it out of there.  On our way, we spotted a dude with a broom.

“Um.  Hi. We’re so sorry, but our son vomited in theater 13.”

“Uh huh,” He said, with zero intention of going to clean it up.

“It’s about midway up on the right…we can show you.”

The man gave us a look that said, “Look lady.  I am in charge of theatres 1 through 5.  If you expect me to go clean up theater 13, and barf to boot, you are out of your friggin mind.”

The little voice repeated itself in my head, “Run!”

And so we ran. 

Barf Time

I recently saw an article about how people perceive time.  Even though we all know a minute is 60 seconds and an hour is 60 minutes, the way those units of time feel is different for every person.  Especially when they are experiencing great stress or great boredom.  Minutes can seem like hours or seconds can seem like days.

Just after the new year, I experienced the longest unit of time imaginable:  Barf Time. 

Luca passed his terrible cough to Elijah and Eli upgraded it to puking.  Not in a flu-y fever way.  But in a cough so hard your guts fly out of your body way. 

Unfortunately, I first discovered this at a New Years Eve party.  Tom and Judy and their incredibly cute daughter Iris had us over for a “Ball Drops at 8pm” soiree.  They had pizza, cookies, big wheels and as much apple juice as a 5 year old can drink.

A quick note about Tom’s daughter Iris.  You know how you can look at a kid and think, “They dude is going to grow up to be a jerk.” Or, “That kid is going to grow up to be incarcerated in the federal pen.”  When I look at Iris I think, “That girl is going to grow up to be the most hilarious woman in her college dorm.”  I don’t know if that’s good or bad.  But it’s the vibe I got from the way she completely owned that party.

Back to barf.  The ball dropped at 8.  Noise was made and stomachs were shaken.  The boys had their coats on and were in the process of being forced to hug all the adults in attendance.  Elijah started hacking his face off when suddenly…

BOOM.  BOOM.  BOOM.  Drops of barf hit the floor in slow motion.  I was frozen in a block of ice, unable to get my hands under his eruption fast enough.  BOOM.  BOOM.  I screamed, “Noooooooooo!” But my voice was all low from the slow motion.

Judy seemed to appear out of thin air, moving at normal speed, carrying paper towels and disinfectant.  As she scrubbed, she declared over and over how this was completely okay and no one should manufacture a phobia about barfing in public like a certain dad we all know.  All I could do was continue my, “Oooooooooo!”

Elijah, was completely unfazed by the whole thing.  He merely caught is breath, looked down and said, “Dada.  I puked!”

I apologized.  Judy scrubbed.  Luca suggested we call a fire truck.

It was all over in a matter of minutes.  Or hours.  Or days.  But thankfully it was over.  Until we went to the movies the next day.  Foreshadow engage!