Before I go any further, I feel a need to explain a little something. A little something known to this family as the curse.
The T Family has, somewhere along the line, pissed off The Vacation Gods. Royally. I don't know how we did it, but we did, and those Vacation Gods are vindictive little fucks. Because every vacation we take as a family? Plagued by sickness and/or some kind of mayhem. Cursed.
You think I'm kidding?
Exhibit A: the tropical vacation 2 years ago where Awesome Stepkid R arrived on our doorstep, the day before travel, with a miserable cold. Which was just a cold, no big deal...for him. However, Miss D. caught the cold, which turned into raging bronchitis. 4 days of that vacation were spent trapped in the hotel room, alternating nursing shifts with hubs, as she coughed up her lungs, burned with fever and wailed.
Exhibit B:The trip to Disney last year, where Miss D. projectile vomited all over herself, her brother, and the rental car with velour seats on a busy highway. And bad mom only had 2 more wipes left in her purse. Try cleaning that mess.
Exhibit C: The destination wedding in Mexico, where 2 hours after checking into the hotel, KitchyWitchy, in all her grace and glory, slipped on wet tiles by the side of the pool and came crashing down, with all of her weight, on her left wrist. My poor friend Shelley's wedding photos are laden with images of bruised, bandaged and braced up me, sulking.
Exhibit D: The worst of the bunch, by far. The $4,000 ski vacation from Hades. The build-up for this one was big; hubs had a medical conference at the Ritz-Carlton in Beaver Creek. A Ritz-Carlton! Awesome! We were beyond excited. On our way up to the ski resort, Miss D. barfed. And then the whole night. The next day, on a packed-to-the-gills apres-ski shuttle bus, Miss M. decided to give dozens of skiiers a lovely vomit shower. It was so vile that they evacuated everyone off the bus at the closest stop. She threw up every hour for 12 hours after that. Then, I spent a day and a half over a toilet. Je-sus. 3 out of 4 family members K.O.'ed. Plus, because it was a "working vacation", we couldn't just leave. We were stuck. At a freaking Ritz-Carlton. We paid $4,000 for a room to vomit in for 5 days.
So without further ado, I'll tell you about Hawaii, episode 2. I'll be brief.
Sitting in our hotel room, watching it pour rain (oh, did I neglect to share that little detail?)...my husband said, "Well, as bad as that was, at least it was asthma and not some disease."
I told him to shut the Hell up. He hadn't been vomited on twice, in public, in one day. Optimists suck.
The next morning, Miss D. awoke in fine fettle. Happily, we hit the beach and the pool and the clouds cleared by afternoon and I thought maybe, just maybe, this was going to be a good vacation.
That evening, The Licker began to cough. A few hours later, she was incendiary. Then she said, "Mommy, I think I ate too much candy," and gripped her gut. Alas, she hadn't eaten any candy.
You know what comes next.
Fortunately, the disease that The Licker contracted (by French-kissing her way around the airport, don'tcha think?) was short-lived. The cough remained but the stomach issues passed, so we were able to somewhat enjoy a good portion of our vacation. Well, except for the sleepless nights, when The Licker became The Hacker.
The T Family curse is, indeed, still with us. But the Vacation Gods showed us some modicum of mercy, because there was still time for this:
Oh, and about that flight home? You don't want to know.