We're Going to Disneyland! Am I Insane?

I got an odd-sized packet it the mail this week. I didn't have to open it to know exactly what it was. There were pink flowers on the envelope, and a scrolling font jazzed up our numbered street address into something almost gallery-worthy.

The contents of the envelope confirmed what I already knew: two of my very dear friends are marrying each other. Theirs is a true story-book romance. Boy meets girl. Falls desperately in love. Girl desperately resists. (For years.) Girl realizes she loves boy. SHE falls in love. He pinches himself. Realizes it's for real, and the rest is history.

I giddily ripped open the envelope, and was so happy to see their names in print! I wouldn't miss this for the world. But then I got to the bottom of the invite. Wedding ceremony to be held in..... Disneyland!

What on earth?

Where on earth?

Well, hello, the happiest place on earth!

Of course. It's so appropriate it makes me sick.

I shrieked at my husband. "Honey, look! We got a wedding invitation!" He looked at me as if I was telling him that a six hundred pound gorilla and his four hundred pound girlfriend were coming over for a rousing game of musical chairs. "No way," he said. "I'm all wedding-ed out."

Of course he was. We'd been to two family weddings in as many weeks. In the wedding party for both of them. The first involved a diaper rash from Hades, 35 degree weather, and abandonment on a dirt road on a gulf island. The second placed my introverted husband behind the podium for the night as emcee. No diaper rash this time, but a full-speed wrecking ball of a child who wanted immediate access to the dance floor (including interrupting the bride and groom's first dance) and unlimited access to the chocolate wedding cake.

"I can't do it again," he said, arms folded in defiance. "I just can't."

I tried to entice him. "The wedding's in California. But don't panic. Babies are free on the airplane until they're two! It'll be like we're SAVING money if we go to Disneyland now instead of two years from now like we planned!"

"What? Airplane? Disneyland? What kind of wedding is this!?" my husband sputtered. I was losing the argument. I could see it. His eyes were glazing over. His hand instinctively reached for the wallet in his back pocket (no doubt to protect his credit card from my crazed plans.)

"I'm not going to Disneyland! You're crazy!" he laughed.

"Well, fine then, I'll go!" I smiled.

"Go ahead." he dared me.

"I will! And I'm taking Little Man." I folded my arms across my chest to match his.

Silence. Hmm. Silence is good. It's not a no. I can work with that.

Kevin just shook his head and smiled. "Have a good time," he snorted. "I'm sure he'll *love* the airplane ride!"

Oh good God. That's right. Air travel. With my projectile vomiting, won't sit still long enough to sneeze LAP INFANT child. My child who recently perfected his vocal impersonation of a dying peacock. My child whose favourite word is "down" and favourite game is "Momma chase me!?" The two of us. On an airplane alone at 30,000 feet. I broke into a cold sweat.

"I can handle it," I lied.

I don't think he believed me.

But we're going. And I am certifiably insane. I went to book travel insurance and inquired about mental health exclusions. The insurance agent almost inhaled the wad of gum she'd been snacking on. "Pardon me, mental health?" she stammered.

"Well, yes. If I go insane chasing after my child in Disneyland, will the coverage pay for my tranquilizers?" As if on queue, we watched my son wiggle his way out of his stroller's five point "child-proof" safety harness and throw himself head-first towards the office fish tank.

The insurance lady put down her nail file and leaned over the desk. "I don't know about the tranquilizers, but have you considered getting some hard liquor at the Duty Free?"

I Scream, You Scream, We All Projectile Vomit and Scream After Ice Cream!

I got an email from our infant development worker the other day. We haven't been to playgroup since April.

"April? Are you sure?"
"Yes, April."

Huh. You don't say....

Little Man is feisty, but his immune system is not. He's constantly getting coughs, chest infections, ear infections, or mild colds. Usually the latter. But in a room full of children with compromised immune systems, the common cold is too much of a threat.

So we haven't been. Now, that's not to say that he's been ill for four months straight. Quite the contrary; he's only had one ear infection, one dose of antibiotics for bronchitis, and had only a handful of trips to the family doctor. Wow, that sounds terrible... but for Little Man, it's par for the course.

It's just that playgroups are held once a week, and when Monday mornings roll around and it's time to take him, he's either just getting over or just coming down with a cold. So we haven't been since April.

Last week it was some type of virus. Fever of 103. Futile trip to the family doctor where we got the usual speech to "wait and see and bring him back in three or four days if he gets worse". I don't really know what I think the doctor will do when I bring in my sick baby after only four days of being ill. I always feel guilty for wasting the doctor's time, but then I'm not an otolaryngologist, and I can't tell if he's got a common cold or another ear infection.

Last night he was feeling better, so we went out for dinner with sister in law and her new husband. Little Man was feeling better, so of course, he was a terror in his high chair. Please note that any restaurant that requires more than five minutes to prepare food should be avoided like the plague until your toddler is old enough to understand logic and reason. Which usually happens when they turn 25 years old.

Anyways, he finally quieted down, and his kids meal included a free ice-cream as dessert. The waiter (who, judging by his sparse facial hair, the poor placement of the steak knife on the table, and loud announcement that there was ice cream on its way) obviously did not have children of his own. So even though Little Man projectile vomits in response to eating dairy, I thought a bite or two wouldn't do him any harm.

We ordered a thimble-full of ice cream, and of course the waiter, wanting to get on the good side of our toddler who OBVIOUSLY would be the one calculating his tip, presenting our pint-sized son with a pint-sized serving of ice cream. NOT COOL.

We let him have a few bites before carrying him kicking and screaming out of the restaurant. When he didn't barf in the car we thought maybe he was outgrowing his projectile vomits.

When I nervously offered him his soy milk before bed, I watched and waited, surrounding him with old towels in case the puking began. But nothing happened. So I patted myself on the back for allowing him his little indulgence, and carried him off to bed.

I don't know what triggers it. Perhaps the realization that he'll be confined to his room for the next nine hours. Perhaps it's boredom. Perhaps he really wanted a bath. I don't know why, but all of a sudden the retching began.

I wish there was a nice way to describe a vomit session, but there isn't. So I won't offend you with the details. Suffice it to say that I got hosed (literally and figuratively). Little Man got a bath, I had a shower, and I got to stay up til 3am doing load upon load of laundry so I wouldn't return home from work today to a house smelling like a truck stop.

I love my Little Man, but I want to go back to that restaurant, find the waiter from last night, find the steak knife he put within three inches of my son and just..... sit down to a nice, uninterrupted dinner. Only this time, hold the ice cream. I've had enough dessert.