What Goes Around Comes Around

On Valentine's Day, I had a brilliant idea. "Let's take the kids to Chuck E. Cheese's tonight!" I said to my parents that morning. I had heard friends talking about it when we lived in Little Rock and San Antonio. We had never gone because I didn't think Luke was old enough to play the games. But now he's old enough, and what could be more romantic than a life-sized petri dish full of germs for Valentine's Day? We met my in-laws there at 4:30. My mother sat in our booth and clutched onto her coat the entire time we were there. She kind of had a sad face, too. I don't blame her...not to be snobbish, but the clientele there was a bit seedy. Not at all like I remember Chuck E. Cheese's growing up. I mean, you didn't have to be dripping in diamonds to go there, but when I was a kid, not everybody looked like they had just come from the free clinic down the street, either.

Tick tock tick tock...

Thirty-six hours passed. Tuesday morning, Luke started throwing up.

When Luke was a baby, he came by his nickname "Pukey Lukey" quite honestly. The boy had some reflux going on. If there was an Olympics category for projectile spitting up, he would have had the gold medal bagged up for sure. But after he turned one, it mostly went away, and I waited with dread until the day he THREW UP threw up. And the day came, just thirty-six hours after we went to Chuck E. Cheese.

I hate to boast, but I handled it beautifully. But that's only because he had spent the night at my in-laws' house and I was ten miles away. I jumped in my car as fast as I could and went to pick him up. We headed home and as I carried Luke up the stairs, he planted a kiss full on my lips that said to me, "Thank you for taking me to Chuck E. Cheese's. The box of mini-crayons I purchased with my winnings was worth all this agony."

It was the morning of my mother's Republican Women's Club meeting and she was hosting. The meeting started at ten. Luke made it no secret that he did NOT want to stay upstairs. He said approximately forty-seven times, "Hmmm, I have an idea. Let's go downstairs." I went down around 11:00 "to get Luke a glass of 'gingerbraille'"--you know, what blind gingerbread boys read--and mostly so I could see if the meeting was wrapping up any time soon. They were discussing what would be on the menu at the next lunch meeting (Chicken Amandine). I went down at 11:45 "to get some baby food". The president was explaining that you don't have to order the lunch in order to come to the meeting. I went down at 1:30 "to get George some clean pajamas from the laundry room". Glory halleluia, the last two guests were leaving, but not without a discussion about the private room at the restaurant where I waited tables in college, and whether it would be a good place to have meetings in the future.

By the end of the day, Luke was feeling more like his old self.

Tick tock tick tock...

Wednesday morning, sixty hours from when we arrived at Chuck E. Cheese's, I felt like I was dying. Right on schedule! Every time I've gotten sick since having children, I have fantasized about getting sick and having my mother there to take care of me and the kids, because usually my husband is out of the country when I have to take care of a child with strep throat while I have strep throat and I'm pregnant with morning sickness. Oh, and the dog develops some sort of stomach ailment, necessitating trips outside every two hours through the night. (Can I get a "Holla" from all my military wife friends?) Let me tell you, it was not as great of a vacation as it sounded. Next time, I'll have to fake it and stash a box of Little Debbies and magazines under my bed to make it really fun.

After one gruelling "session of congress" on my knees in the bathroom, Luke said to me, "Mommy, can you be sick downstairs?" I figured they missed me, and so my mother made me a bed on the couch. My heart skipped a beat when Luke cupped my chin in his hands and said to me, "I will take good care of you today." I started having visions of my little boy bringing me trays laden with saltines, jello, gingerale, and a bud vase with a single flower he'd picked from the yard. And his hands were clean and his hair combed. Like a bubble popping, my dream vanished abruptly as he started climbing on me, stepped on my stomach, poked me in the eyes, piled throw pillows on top of me, banged me in my already-throbbing forehead with my temporal thermometer, and told me I looked "dirty dirty".

Tick tock tick tock...

By about midnight I was feeling much better. Right in time for my mom to start yacking her guts up...for SIXTEEN HOURS AND COUNTING. I hate to cut this short, but popsicle duty beckons. And then I've got to disinfect door handles, burn sheets, sacrifice a lamb, etc. If my mother ever forgives me for the Chuck E. Cheese's debacle, it will be the miracle of unconditional love.