Warning: We're still in the gross post series. But this is the last one, I promise.
We made it on the plane. My clothes were drenched in throw up, Babykins was still wearing nothing but a diaper and Crocs, and we had run out of both wipes and plastic bags, but at least...
No, at this point there was no bright side. We had a 10 hour flight ahead of us and no end in sight to the great throw up marathon.
I'll give you the condensed version: Babykins threw up 3 more times before passing out for the rest of the flight. I changed clothes three times, eventually ending up in my least disgusting pair of pants (which were still extremely gross) and a sweater with no buttons that I wore backwards and secured shut with a hair tie. Auntie MO spent the entire flight freezing because I had borrowed her sweatshirt when I ran out of tops, and Babykins promptly threw up on it. The little boy sitting in the seat across the aisle spent the entire flight trying not to look at us. And because the flight attendants were completely un-helpful, the person who sat in my seat on the next flight was going to have a wet, smelly trip.
Throw up count: 9 (plus once more on the car ride to the Q, but really, by now, who's counting?)
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