One of the things about getting married before your growth plates close is, you don’t have much grownup training. My parents spent the 2 years before we got married really hammering these messages into the 2 of us a) finish high school b) keep your pants on and c) have a job. We did all of that, more or less, but we never really had time to learn etiquette or whatever and as a result, we only know how to have the Christian equivalent of frat parties. “Let’s have this couple over for dinner,” he says, and I panic, because a sit-down meal with one other grownup couple is entirely different than queso and Cokes for 30.
Since the remodel, though, our house is so pretty for entertaining, and I have had a couple of ladies’ events here. And that is how I almost killed my whole city.
See, sometimes kids puke for no reason. I have multiple kids and you never know if this is a real thing or what. So my daughter puked and she was kinda droopy for a day or two but everybody else was fine, and so I thought, no need to move the baby shower this weekend, everybody is well again.
The women came in, all of them adult women with earrings and presents and things. My friends decorated and coordinated the food, because, again, unless it’s rice and beans for dozens, I freeze up. It was a lovely shower for my friend Marisol, who is adopting a baby in January. (side note: you should go donate something, anything to Mari and Efrain’s adoption fund. I’ll wait.)
Welcome back! Thanks. Like I was saying, it was great. People ate the snacks, they chatted, I did not discover any horrifying ex-diaper or rotten apple in a trafficked area, etc. We all were grownup ladies and we had a lovely time and then they all went home. Yay me, I thought.
And then the puking started. By me. It wasn’t too bad, if you enjoy having your innards ripped out by demons for 12 hours. The MOG held down the fort and tried to offer comfort, because he enjoys comfort when he is ill, but I convinced him that nothing would comfort me more than being left alone to die in a pool of my own body fluids. Then he got sick. And then all of the grownup ladies got sick. And some of my children, and their children, and maybe the Pope.
I stood on the cliff above my city, watching their writhing and wailing, and I knew: I did this.
I was the forerunner, so I warned them. Eventually they started a Facebook group with unflattering pictures of themselves, not in the throes of illness, necessarily, but soon afterward. Thanksgivings were canceled. Tragedy, chaos and natural remedies abounded. I was awash in guilt, which was a nice change from being awash in puke. It was a strange kind of horrific community building.
Everyone is in recovery now, as far as I can tell. I’m still pretty iffy, but I am determined to carry on. When all this is over, I’m having all you people over for chips and queso.