So last night Julia was to spend the night at my sister's house, while my husband and I went out to celebrate his birthday (which is today). Although Julia had broken the fever, the virus seemed to have moved to her stomach. So we decided to keep her home and just stick with our usual Saturday plan. Most Saturdays we attend 4:30 mass with my sister's family. Afterward we eat out. Often times, we'll try a somewhere different, usually downtown Detroit. This is really a win win win. We attend mass, enjoy a big family dinner and the adults feel current as we are selecting from a variety of restaurants from offbeat to trendy.
As each painful stomach episode occurred throughout the day, I vacillated between sending Bobby to mass without us or putting an extra pair of underpants in a zip sealed baggie and venturing out. I chose the latter. We positioned ourselves at the end of the pew so we could quickly and discretely get to the bathroom if need be. We made it up until the responsorial psalm when she whispered that she needed to go. It was a false alarm, and we made it back in time for the gospel. The remainder of mass was uneventful.
As plans for dinner started to take form a small voice said, maybe this isn't the best idea. Not only did I not heed this voice, but I also agreed to leave our car in the church parking lot and jump in with my sister's family. And if that weren't enough I suggested a new place. It is called Vince's. It is on Springwell near I75. It's old school Italian. The parking lot is fenced in and located in the back, where the only entrance to the restaurant exists. I was told it was set up that way intentionally. Although it opened long after the days of the speakeasy, there were still plenty of extra curricular activities going on inside. They set a look out guy at the entrance to the lot. When the police pulled up it allowed them just enough time to relay a message inside and clean everything up before the police could enter through that one door.
So we get there and it is everything I expect. We had barely decided on which wine to order, when Julia climbed into my lap and announced that her stomach was hurting badly. I quickly look at the menu and leave Bobby our order requests. Off we go back into the bathroom. After a minute of papering the seat, while she is moaning and pouting, I drop her drawers and hoist her up. I am holding her under her armpits while squatting in front of her. In a public bathroom this is enough to set a germaphobe like me into a tailspin. She passes gas and begins to cry. At first it is quiet and weak, but it is building quickly. I am shushing, but to no avail. Her face is buried in my hair, the wailing stops only briefly while I hear her begin to choke. I believe she breathed in a mouthful of my hair. Have I mentioned that she has a serious gag reflex? The coughing has turned to choking with intermittent hysterical crying (I am sure that protective services will bust in at any moment), all the while stuff is coming out of her other end. With my grip under her arms still tight, I go from my squat to an on my toes full body arch to avoid the saliva that is pouring out of her mouth and the mucus bubbling out of her nose. I am watching it drip onto her very chic cowboy boots. In an instant, everything ceases. It is dead silent. I wipe down her face, blow her nose and wipe her bottom. We zip, button and wipe off her boots. I look up from her boots and her sweet defeated face is looking down at me and my love for her at that moment is tremendous. She says, "I feel all better now." We wash our hands, wipe her face with damp paper towels and exit the bathroom. Although we were gone for 15 minutes no one is any the wiser (the bathroom was a room away from where the family was sitting, so no one even heard her cry). Thankfully the wine has arrived in my absence. I down the glass and on we go.
Dinner was outstanding, and we arrived home with unused panties in the same zip sealed bag secure in my purse.
So we get there and it is everything I expect. We had barely decided on which wine to order, when Julia climbed into my lap and announced that her stomach was hurting badly. I quickly look at the menu and leave Bobby our order requests. Off we go back into the bathroom. After a minute of papering the seat, while she is moaning and pouting, I drop her drawers and hoist her up. I am holding her under her armpits while squatting in front of her. In a public bathroom this is enough to set a germaphobe like me into a tailspin. She passes gas and begins to cry. At first it is quiet and weak, but it is building quickly. I am shushing, but to no avail. Her face is buried in my hair, the wailing stops only briefly while I hear her begin to choke. I believe she breathed in a mouthful of my hair. Have I mentioned that she has a serious gag reflex? The coughing has turned to choking with intermittent hysterical crying (I am sure that protective services will bust in at any moment), all the while stuff is coming out of her other end. With my grip under her arms still tight, I go from my squat to an on my toes full body arch to avoid the saliva that is pouring out of her mouth and the mucus bubbling out of her nose. I am watching it drip onto her very chic cowboy boots. In an instant, everything ceases. It is dead silent. I wipe down her face, blow her nose and wipe her bottom. We zip, button and wipe off her boots. I look up from her boots and her sweet defeated face is looking down at me and my love for her at that moment is tremendous. She says, "I feel all better now." We wash our hands, wipe her face with damp paper towels and exit the bathroom. Although we were gone for 15 minutes no one is any the wiser (the bathroom was a room away from where the family was sitting, so no one even heard her cry). Thankfully the wine has arrived in my absence. I down the glass and on we go.
Dinner was outstanding, and we arrived home with unused panties in the same zip sealed bag secure in my purse.
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