He hadn't eaten for two days. He had a really bad night last night. Sobbing for Mama, crying out intermittently, clinging to me like I was his last hope. But ... no concrete evidence that would have allowed me to cancel our flight this morning. No fever, no vomiting, no diarrhea. Nada.
Until five minutes after we took off and he started throwing up.
Freshly digested milk.
On a tiny regional jet.
Joy.
Yep, he alternated barfing and sleeping for the entire three-hour flight. We were both covered in puke. And then I started sobbing uncontrollably when I realized I'd left all his DVDs at my parents' house (love those pregnancy hormones!). I felt bad for the people around us, but not as bad as I felt for Kiddle. He was miserable, poor thing. And I felt like such a loser of a mom for knowing something wasn't right and still getting on the plane.
But also perversely pleased that at least I wasn't going to have to get my couch and rugs cleaned again. Small blessings, right?
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