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The porcelain god

I started the week with a full night's sleep and a peaceful shower. I know, weird, right? Just as I was about to look in the mirror and yell WHO THE HELL ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY LIFE, Michael called to tell me that Gabriella had been puking all morning, in case I had forgotten who I was all the way down there at the Holiday Inn in Raleigh.

I had planned to fly home that evening but returned that afternoon instead to revive Gabriella from her cartoon coma with a bath and bedtime stories.

So then the next night I received a text message from Michael at work telling me in no uncertain terms that he too had the stomach bug. And I wanted to go, seriously? I know I should be sympathetic, but really? THE BABY COULD BE NEXT!

Let me tell you about the next 24 hours where Michael and Dominic perfected a chorus of vomit in between sips of Gatorade and Pedialyte while Gabriella handed out bandaids and Fisher Price Medical Kit injections. 

So I finally get to Friday with the family intact, and I'm trying not to feel cocky because my immune system, I don't know, kicks a lot of ass, when I wake up in the middle of the night with immobilizing nausea. OH YES I DID. 

I don't think I need to tell you how this story ends.

Mad Skills

He loves to eat paper and Cheerios more than anything else in life. He understands a handful of words but kitty cat is his favorite one.  A ridiculously high-pitched scream. A chronic case of separation anxiety. He cruises through the house like a G.I. who is about to break a world record in the low crawl. And he's finally sleeping through the night.

Philosophy primer

While exchanging Christmas gifts at the mall on Saturday Gabriella suddenly lay down on the ground. Please get up. Why? Because the floor’s dirty. Why? Because people walk on it. Why? Because you’re not Diego and this isn’t the rainforest and we can’t all swing from vines as our major form of transportation. Oh. Why? And it goes on and on like Russian nesting dolls only slightly more adorable. 

Hey batta batta batta

I've written about Dominic's first fantasy football draft, curse of the bambino and seventh-inning stretch. Now the kid's learned to heckle. And I mean, HECKLE. Like a fan drunk on cheap beer, leaning over the rail and calling the ump Mr. Magoo.

Twenty ten

On New Year’s Eve I watched the ball drop on television. That’s right, I stayed up past midnight y’all. I didn’t plan such wild and crazy behavior. But then the baby wouldn’t settle until I brought him downstairs by the fire. And then the toddler woke up and puked all over herself. So there I found myself during the last minutes of 2009 doing laundry way past my normal bedtime and convincing Gabriella to switch the channel from Noggin to Times Square FOR JUST TWO SECONDS, DAMMIT!

Seventh-inning stretch

Dominic claps on command. He stretches on command too. And it’s not just his arms, it’s his legs, it’s his back, it’s his finger and toes. I cannot get over the fact that his first words are clapping and stretching. Most kids start with mama or dada. This kid is starting with bloody Sweet Caroline at Fenway Park.