The St Patrick's Weekend that Wasn't

St Patrick's Day was upon us, and my husband & I were ready with suitcases full of green for our annual weekend away at our favorite hotel. Our friend Andy flew in from Baltimore for the festivities and my bestest and her boyfriend were primed and ready.

 

 

Friday night was spectacular. Well, what I can remember.

 

The only things that are really clear are shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, and waking up in my room (ok, the bathroom floor of my room). Everything between those two points is extremely fuzzy. 

 

But I woke up feeling great, partook in the old Irish hangover remedy of a bloody mary and a scottish egg, and was ready to tackle the day (and especially the night) until my mother in law called.

 

Emerson is sick.

Imagine a huge record player coming to a scratching halt. 

 

So Andy, Clay, and I load up the SUV, bid farewell to Jen & Paul, drive the hour to my mother in law's, pick up the kids, then drive the two hours home. Andy gets a room nearby because he doesn't want to catch the plague, and the four disillusioned Churches spend their Saturday night much differently than envisioned.

 

Sunday morning, Em woke up like this:

 

Our pediatrician met us at his office, and both kids were diagnosed with strep, sinus infections, and ear infections. Em even had a strain of scarlet fever just to keep things super interesting. 

 

We paid $85 for some super strong antibiotics and by Tuesday our girl was feeling better.

 

Much better, clearly.

 

And that was our St Pat's weekend.

Never a dull moment.