Like so many things in my life that began with good intentions, yesterday’s plans for my husband’s first father’s day dissolved like so many tears in the ocean. We had been doing so well, our weekend plans laid out so concisely. We had obtained a babysitter, a venue for his father’s day dinner picked out, and a thoughtful card and gift purchased.
Then Saturday night, a foreboding rumbling began in my belly. It was followed not long after by violent upheavals of the evening’s meal. My husband would soon come down with the same symptoms. Instead of utilizing the babysitter to get a much needed break from our parenting duties, we both laid in bed listening to our son wail in discontent downstairs. He seemed to be suffering as well.
We spent a better part of the day in bed. Finally mid afternoon, I got tired of hearing my son in distress and went down to relieve the well-intentioned, but sadly failing babysitters. My husband continued to sleep most of the late afternoon into the evening. He got up a few times to help with the baby, like when he barfed all over me just before bed, but for the day was a total loss.
It sucks, but most of our major milestones work out this way. Our wedding was completely flooded out by a hurricane, our honeymoon a wash with the storm’s aftermath, and the like. I guess it gives us good stories to tell, but honestly, once in a while, I’d rather the day go as planned with a regular old boring story like “everything went exactly as expected and a good time was had by all.”