Cinco de Mayo "fun"

Oh stomach viruses.  Just when you think they're finally out of the incubation range and whoever didn't get it is safe, boom, Zeb barfs all over the place.  "I barf Teddybear's hand!" - direct gleeful quote about Sunday's projectile episode.  Nic and I were about to pull out of the driveway with Opal, on our way to take a walk at some unexplored area park Nic found and have a Cinco de Mayo drink with Lizzy at Cantina Feliz, and Grandpa Teddy had just taken Zeb inside for his nap after hours of playing, when Grandpa Teddy comes racing outside yelling "Zeb just puked all over me!"  There were actually several positives to the situation - Zeb managed to empty his gullet in the dining room on a wood floor instead of the carpeted upstairs floors or the rug in the living room, and he didn't hit any of the baby gear crowded into the corners of the room; the barf mostly got all over my dad who was of course wearing his customary seventeen layers of clothing despite the warm weather; and Zeb wasn't upset and seemed totally fine afterwards.  In fact, he hasn't shown another sign of sickness since.  Of course, Wolfie, the only other one to experience this illness as barfing, had two and a half days between his two episodes of puking, so I'm still on high alert.

The attempt at Cinco de Mayo drinks gets a grade of D-.  It wasn't a total failure because I did get to ingest my coveted margarita, as did Nic, but Opal was terrified of the restaurant for some reason.  So I had my drink with Lizzy first, then went outside to check on Nic and Opal and found that she'd been screaming the whole time.  So I nursed her in the car for twenty minutes while Nic had his drink, then attempted to re-enter the restaurant with the now-calmed baby Opal, only to have her start screaming bloody murder as soon as we passed the hostess's stand.  Oh well.  We have the ingredients for margaritas at home now.  I made Nic get actual Cointreau and whatnot instead of the mix, so we'll have to redo Cinco de Mayo this Qdoba Friday. 

Before all that, I took Wolfie to a party at Bounce U Sunday morning.  Due to pregnancy then the newborn period, most of this school year it's been my parents taking the kids to parties.  But recently I've started resuming party-schlepping duties.  Wolfie's interesting to watch at these affairs.  He enjoys all of the activities with gusto, but he's kind of reserved with the other kids.  He's not antisocial because he definitely talks to the other kids and they talk to him, but it's like he's just having his own good time.  The dude is getting difficult about food, though.  He rejected the pizza for having too much sauce.  In fact, he's actually not all that into pizza period these days.  A lot of nights he ends up whining no matter what we're eating, unless it's mac and cheese.  I'm starting to worry he's going to end up on an episode of "Freaky Eaters" a dozen years or so down the line.

While we were out at the party, Eli took it upon himself to go spelunking in the cave of costume storage that is his crawlspace.  Which is how this happened:

He also found a cache of my old college-favorite insane platform shoes.  "Which costume do these shoes go to?" he asked over and over, holding my beautiful forgotten sculptural wooden platforms and my KISS-like kneehigh six inch platform boots that I somehow used to wear while biking around cracked-sidewalk New Orleans.  I don't know about the boots, but the wooden ones I'm vowing to rehabilitate (the tops aren't in the best shape) and reincorporate as I get out of my pajama-wearing shut-in lifestyle and back into living in the outside big person world.