Isn't that how the saying goes? Vomiting in every room christens a new house?

Today was Ann's second birthday.  It started off great.  We reviewed whose birthday it was ("Moin") and how old she was (a varying assortment of fingers) and toddled ourselves off to the indoor playground to meet her cousins (there was some confusion about whether it was their birthdays too, but I feel confident that we got that sorted out).  To be clear, indoor playgrounds are hellish, but this one has a bouncy castle, numerous slides and a bubble machine, so it constitutes Special Event material.

If this photo gives you vertigo, picture it in reality...

A sticky, germ-filled and never-ending hour and a half later, we excused ourselves to Boston Pizza, where Ann promptly barfed all over her highchair.  And this is the TSN turning point of the day.

In Ann's short life, every single time she has been pukey, Adrian has been away.  To his credit, he is mostly away for work and hates it.  It happens so often it would be funny if it it didn't suck so effing much.  The first time, I was visiting my parents and flew home after the first night of Ann's puking.  The lady beside me kept commenting on how delightfully well-behaved my child was.  I obviously couldn't tell her that she had Norwalk and didn't have the energy to lift her highly-contagious head, so I just smiled.  I can remember clearly that awful, awful moment when I finally crawled into bed at 9pm that night and realized that I felt nauseous, with Adrian not due to return from his fishing trip for 20 more hours.  It was probably the lowest moment of my parenting life, matched by that actual night, when I woke Ann and helplessly had to listen to her cry every single time I puked (I'm a King, we're loud pukers).  Fortunately for me, I have nice friends that call in sick to their nursing jobs so that they can come over at 7am, watch my kid, and deliver suppositories (to the house, not actually to the affected area).

Anyways, so here Ann and I are again.  The poor thing is finally asleep and I can get to the fun part of picking barfy spaghetti pieces from the washer.  And scrubbing vomit out of her favourite teddy with my hands.  I thought that at this point in the evening I would be sipping a glass of red and reflecting on the experience of her birth and the first two (mostly) wonderful years of her life.  Instead, I am reflecting on our lunch (as the faint spaghetti aroma now permeates the house and will have to be exorcised later.  Damn you, BP.  I'll never eat bolognese again).  Ad is due home in 45 minutes, I'll have to be sure to save some of the laundry for him.