Never have I ever been so grateful to have a weekend come to an end. It began innocently enough. Saturday and Sunday were fraught with volunteering opportunities for a couple of worthy causes that we all were involved in. At the top of the list was a fund raiser/garage sale to benefit our dear friends in the adoption process of their son from an orphanage in Haiti. Because international adoptions? THEY ARE PRICEY!
By Sunday afternoon, I was seriously over the whole garage sale thing. And I’m a big fan of the garage sale. People have interesting reactions to a donation only garage sale. All the items were donated by friends, so only the large items were ticketed, but for everything else, a donation was asked. We made it clear. ANYTHING is a blessing. And there was an adorable picture of the soon-to-be-adopted toddler on a table.
People either thought it was the greatest idea ever, or they were completely freaked out at the prospect of naming their own price. Thankfully, the positives FAR outweighed the negatives and tears flowed freely as people were touched by the story of this adoption.
A large storm was brewing on Sunday afternoon, so we were hurriedly bagging all remaining items (of which there was MUCH) before the rain/wind/tornado-like activity would hit. Let me pause to say that I still have certain physical limitations related to my fight with Lyme disease. And perhaps my biggest limitation is not knowing when to stop. Fiddledaddy had already picked up the girls who had been helping earlier. And then he began calling me mid-afternoon to remind me that I needed to leave before it was too late. Because he doesn’t prefer to put up with me while I’m in traction.
I mumbled something about being home soon, hung up, and continued working. A few minutes later he called back with a stern message. He needed me home pronto. Emme was puking.
I was torn. A big part of me wanted to pretend that I didn’t get the message. Because traction? WAY better than dealing with vomit. But guilt got the better of me, and I excused myself to head towards
hell home. And no, I didn’t drive extra slowly or take the scenic route.
As luck would have it, by the time I arrived home Fiddledaddy had already cleaned out my bathroom sink. Yes, sink. And the afflicted one was in the shower. TIMING. It is everything.
As it turns out, Emme may have just been a little over-heated, and then came home and scarfed her salad down too quickly. She rebounded nearly immediately.
She was doing so well, in fact, that I was able to take the girls to a going away party for Emme’s best friend, who will be sailing (SAILING…IN A BOAT) to Australia. It will likely take them a year. They are a missionary family we have known since our girls were miniature. They have unsuccessfully been able to get their visa extended. Because they have been trying to do it the LEGAL way. Don’t even get me started. But. God has a plan for this family. They will no doubt bless all they come in contact with on their long voyage.
Anyhoo. We arrived at the party a bit late, and took our seat towards the back with Emme’s best friend. Other friends and church family were standing up at the podium speaking reminiscing words of praise about this precious family, as the cake was served. During one such speech, I heard a gasp about 20 feet away. A pregnant woman jumped to her feet. I assumed that someone had spilled something on her white pants, when I realized that the source of the commotion was a young boy projectile vomiting 2 weeks worth of groceries. The pregnant woman made a mad dash to the exit. I never saw her again. The boy continued vomiting, while hapless adults nearby tried to catch it with their hands, plates, or whatever else they could find. At this point my eyes began to roll to the back of my head, and I warned my girls that if the smell should waft over to my general area, we were going to make a hasty exit. Never to return.
Just then Fiddledaddy texted me to see how everything was going. I told him. His reply was simple: “Run.” Adults with clearer heads had the mess cleaned up in no time. I’m guessing. Because I refused to look. In the even of an emergency, you can generally find me under the table. Well, the event continued, and then it was our friend’s turn to get up and share their memories and goodbyes. Another gasp. This time the commotion was at the table in front of the podium. Dear God. They’re dropping like flies. It seems that an elderly woman fainted. Of course the room erupted in prayer and 911 was dispatched. I refrained from calling Fiddledaddy to alert him that our eminent departure was blocked BY THE AMBULANCE.
The little lady was fine, and had succumbed to the heat (it is Florida, after all). She was taken to the hospital as a precaution. We said our tearful goodbyes to our friends and I was ready to make an exit. My daughter looked over at me (as she knows my love language), “But Mom! Don’t you want a piece of cake?”
Pass. I may never eat again.
Monday has only gone uphill from there.