Because if it were all bliss, what would I write about?

In between amazing good news, roses, champagne and the usual idylls of spring, we spent the weekend being yarfed on by the baby (whom I undoubtedly will be calling "the baby" well into his fifties). All of which lead to this exchange in front of the washing machine this morning:

"I'm going to apply The Secret to my wish not to be vomited on."

"Okay, but leave the word 'vomit' out of your intention. The law of attraction doesn't distinguish between 'want' and 'don't want.'You'll just get more vomit."

"I wish that undigested food would not land on me."

"Too many negatives. And you're supposed to phrase it like your wish is already happening."

"I am so happy and grateful that food is fully digested by the people around me who ate it."

"Perfect."

It will be later in the summer before I can share with you the part of my wish that is already happening. But after that, they can go ahead and sign me up for the mall tour of The Secret. Patrick, too, if it stops the vomit.

When he wasn't actually upchucking, the baby felt okay. But you can tell he is sick by the state of his hair. All the ringlets have frizzed out. Patrick said he looks like Nick Nolte's mugshot.