The journey of three thousand miles begins with two trips to the emergency room.

See, we were flying from Sacramento to Baltimore on Tuesday. On Saturday, the entire family was shopping in an outlet mall--something we do maybe once a year--when the Little One started looking a little green. If you read this blog ever, you know that the sound of vomiting in this household is more like background music than any kind of noteworthy event. But public vomiting is special. The stuff memories are made of! And I congratulate myself really, because when the big event happened, it happened on AngryHusband's shirt and not mine, and it happened outside the Carters store and not inside. It took me probably 3 solid minutes to remember what she had for lunch. I studied the mess on the concrete trying to avoid the stares as I thought about it, waiting impatiently for AngryHusband to return from the bathroom. It is an interesting gender difference: fathers try and avoid bodily fluids, wise on some level but entirely inefficient and useless behavior. Mothers wipe it on their pants and move on.

Corn dogs.

At home, the Little One vomited up everything we gave her, even water. She was hurling every 15-30 minutes. Somewhere in that dark afternoon, the Big One jumped off the footstool--a beautiful flying Batgirl kick. But she landed wrong and lay on the carpet (which by the way I had just shampooed but was soon to be vomited on over and over as I ran out of towels and blankets, which the washing machine just could not spit back out fast enough). "I'm DYING! I'm GOING TO DIE!!!!" the Big One screamed as she writhed around on the floor. We are a bit dramatic, the females of my family, but she was hurt for real this time. AngryHusband and I conferenced on that one and decided to give it some time before rushing off to the hospital.

As it happened, I was up all night catching vomit, so I was awake to hear the Big One moaning and crying in pain for most of the night. She awoke in tears. I called the doctor's office, and we loaded them both into the car. The Little One got an anti-nausea drug in suppository form and some antiobiotics for a raging ear infection. If she was still vomiting after that, we were sternly directed to go straight to the ER. The Big One was referred to the Urgent Care down the street, where they have an X-Ray machine.

While I contemplated the long, thin, medication I was soon to be shoving up my child's ass, AngryHusband drove back down the hill to the urgent care with the Big One.

I have to laugh. The instructions on the suppository strongly advise you to wash your hands after touching it. I also strongly advise you to wash your hands after taking this long, white, waxy object and shoving up your child's rectum. Of course, they're going to scream. And did you know that when you scream, your butt does this thing that causes any helpful medication to shoot out of it at a dangerous velocity? If you'd like to picture it more clearly, stare at your dog's butt when it's barking. You could shoot bullets out of there. So you not only have to shove the thing up there, but you have to hold it in place for the longest 15 minutes of your life. Yes, do wash your hands.

The phone rings. AngryHusband has to go to the emergency room with the Big One because the X-ray machine is actually not the right kind of X-ray machine. I'm feeling happy because the Little One hasn't vomited since she got The Treatment. So I pour her some liquid antibiotic, and she agrees to drink it after just 15 additional minutes of feverish negotiation. Five minutes later, she vomits it up.

The Big One returns from the emergency room with her arm in a sling covered with teddy bears. She has stickers and a McDonalds milkshake, and she's on top of the world. I shove the Little One in the car, and we go to emergency room. I wonder if they'll notice that both children have been to the same emergency room on the same day, but no one says a word when we check in.

After a couple of bags of IV fluid and an intravenous drug to stop her vomiting, we are given the all clear. We get home at about 9 pm. The entire weekend before our two-week vacation has gone by with nothing done. No packing, no cleaning, no laundry, and more importantly, no sleeping.