I can't believe it's been two weeks since I last posted, but there's nothing like a couple of school Thanksgiving parties, "real work" deadlines, a national holiday and a virus/possible food poisoning incident to throw things off.
Luckily, the "food poisoning" hit Mike, not me. Because, if it had hit me, there would have been no turkey on the table for Ryan to not eat.
Seriously, Mike woke up in the middle of the night on Thanksgiving sick as a dog. We had plans to go to the Macy's parade and I told him we'd just bag it. He was like, "Just let me rest here on the couch," in the basement, watching TV. It was 4:30 in the morning. At 6:30, he still was not doing well, but some dad gene thing kicked in, and he said, "We're going."
By 7:30 a.m., we were on Broadway--standing. Three deep in a crowd. Without folding chairs, which the Macy's web site said were not allowed, but I guess if 8 million people on the parade route bring them (and they get there at 5 a.m. to do so), what are the cops gonna do, bust 'em all? "Okay, granny, move it out. Arthritis, arshmitis. The chair's history."
So Mike, afflicted with some sort of stomach disturbance, had no chair. Or a bathroom within two blocks. But, he did have a Coke, so all bases were covered. When the parade started, the people in front of us invited Cara and Ryan to stand up front with their kids. It was a terrific offer, so hat's off to the people from Poughkeepsie. Cara hopped up there and had a perfect view of everything--the floats, the bands. She was high-fiving the clowns.
Ryan, meanwhile, must have been harboring fears that if he went up front, we'd finally get our chance to go out for a ride and never come back. He preferred to stay by us and see the back of everyone's butt (he's a short 4-year-old), rather than see everything up close standing by his sister. With us four feet behind him. But, hey, we gave him a break--he is a pre-schooler. So we ended up taking turns breaking our backs and arms holding him. Until Mike literally just couldn't stand anymore and went back to the car. When the parade ended, we came back to find him shivering in a hot vehicle. (It was 65 degrees in NY on Thanksgiving.)
So, Mike spent the rest of Thanksgiving in bed with a fever, chills, and a major league stomach ailment that doesn't need any further explanation. He blamed it on a bad hamburger from the night before. It was believable. Hey, the "Supersize Me" guy barfed out his car window before he even finished his meal.
Cut to Saturday night. I got together with friends from high school and we shot the breeze well into the night. I came home only to find Cara awake--with a fever. And chills. And a headache. And she didn't eat no burgers, neither.
It's not baseball season, but I'm currently waiting to catch the fever.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino