The 911 Call

I keep forgetting to make this a matter of public humiliation: Ruby dialed 911 on Saturday night and it was one of those moments when I just wanted to be swallowed by the earth underneath me.  There is a reason that my mind keeps trying to erase that embarassing incident (not unlike the way my mind threw out the painful aspect of laboring a child).

Ruby is obsessed with cell phones-pretend ones and ancient ones that no longer turn on do not do the trick for her.  Prior to Saturday night, I would let her have my phone because it had a locking capability.  Somehow, 911 can still be dialed despite that feature because well...it happened. 

The call back from the 911 dispatcher was agonizing, especially as she took down my name and address and nightmare visions of it being published in the local paper were almost too much to bear.  I apologized profusely even after she assured me it was okay, and then I spent the rest of the night sort of unnerved (I think all those talks about the seriousness of a 911 call when I was about 5 really got to me-I felt so awful).

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We had a really romantic Valentine's Day full of entirely too much snot, vomit, and whining.  And I wouldn't change our newfound romance for anything.  Certainly, I don't want to see my baby sick, but having her here with us beats the quiet fondue nights that used to make up our Valentine's Days.

I was treated to homemade clam chowder and beautiful roses that night, and I made chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert.

Yesterday, we braved the sick toddler + dinner out combination and the results weren't too great, but the food sure was.  So good in fact, I wondered if it would be possible to ask for a second course of cheese fondue after the dessert fondue was finished.  We looove the Melting Pot. 

Ruby is feeling much better, so this week's mission?  Project: Home Organization shall ensue.  I have a lot of stuff I want to accomplish-we'll see how far I get with that.