When Max threw up on me, I should have taken it as a sign.
But I didn't.
Garrett had left for his Hotter 'n Hell bike ride Friday morning. He was supposed to return Saturday night and help me get ready for Max's birthday party Sunday afternoon.
But I had many things ready. My mom had helped me back six dozen cookies to represent Cookie Monsters stash. I'd completed most of the interior party decor. I had the table set up for everything but food. The lawn was mowed. The house was clean.
Alas, no party. My cousin's family and mother-in-law traveled three hours to learn Sunday morning that the party was off.
I kept thinking he was having drainage or something. He is so rarely ill. I mean, who gets sick just in time to miss 27 people celebrating your birth? It's a joke of the cosmos.
My child is the holiday kid. First, we thought we lost him when we were celebrating Valentine's Day/wedding anniversary. Then, we thought we were going to lose him on my husband's birthday which (I thought) I'd cleverly scheduled as the same day as the boy/girl identification day. Then I went into labor on Labor Day. He had no interest in setting out cookies for Santa last year because he got sick on Christmas Eve.
So, I should have known the poor little guy would wake up with a 102 degree fever on the day of his party, right? It's not like he didn't warn me. After all, he did throw up on me two days before.
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