Earlier, Todd and I loaded the children into the minivan (named Ariel Mermaid, in case you know about cars and names) and headed off toward Target (10% coupon and everything) to see if we could find a bike for me. It's what I requested for my birthday, along with one of those nifty bike trailers for the boy, and helmets for us both. The girlies really love to ride their bikes, and it's hard for me to keep up on foot, pushing a stroller. I know, I know, I'm usually cheetah-like, but for some reason, this is beyond me.
Abbie kindly shared a Cheez-It with her brother as we were pulling out of the driveway, and as we rounded the first corner, he gagged and spit up a little. Well, it was really more than spitting up but the damage wasn't catastrophic - his overalls could come off and he could shop in his onesie - so we continued. However, before we reached the next block, he'd managed to expel copious amounts of breastmilk and snot (still has the runny nose from his cold) all over himself and his car seat. There was no saving the trip, so Todd drove around the block - we didn't even make it as far as the Catholic church two blocks away - and came home.
Ah, well. Who am I to rail against such a clear message from the powers-that-be, that we did not need to go shopping this evening? Chances are we avoided being contaminated with the bubonic plague, or something equally heinous. It was worth a shot, though. Maybe tomorrow. (Note to self: Boy and Cheez-Its do not mix.)