So, we're back from our chicklette-moon.
Let's start with the good, shall we? Late on Thursday afternoon, we checked in to the lovely Hotel Del Coronado on, you guessed it, Coronado Island. It's a lovely, historic, haunted hotel. I've always wanted to stay there. Nice, hunh?
As if that weren't enough, the Mr. in his charming charmingness managed to sweet talk his way into an upgrade to a suite. So we rang in the first night of our vacay looking out the window at this view:
Again, not bad. We watched the beach get invaded by Navy SEALS after dark (apparently they have the run of the island to train on as they wish), ate some totally carb-y Italian food, and went to sleep.
Things continued to look up the next day, as we got up early, hit Starbucks for a Pumpkin Spice Latte, and got to the San Diego Zoo nice and with PANDAS on the brain. No line, everything going well, pandas were cute, etc.
I should have known that furry panda butt was an Omen of Doom. About 10 yards outside of the panda exhibit, I started to feel funky. A little light-headed, a little hot (what else is new?), a little thirsty. I chalked it up to the fact that it was hot, I was pregnant, and, well, those two things seemed to be enough.
We made it to the nearest refreshment stand and I gulped down some water. And then immediately ran to the little pandas room to expel something looking strikingly similar to what that furry panda butt expelled right after I took that picture. It was not pretty -- in fact, the next person to enter the bathroom (while I was still moaning on the stall), exclaimed "UGH!"
Somehow we made it out of the Zoo (that place is FRICKIN' HILLY), and the Mr. drove us back to the hotel. I curled up in a fetal position and slept for two hours, thinking the worst was behind me (ha ha).
But no. I couldn't get to sleep that night, and had a vague feeling that something bad was going to happen. At about 4:00, it did. And then again at 5. And 6. I'm sure you get the picture. I DESTROYED the fancy bathroom. I woke up the poor Mr. (how he was still sleeping at this point was beyond me) and told him what was going on (although I'm pretty sure he got the picture as soon as he took his first conscious breath). He felt my forehead, determined that I was running a fever, got me dressed, and trucked me off to the ER.
Long story short, things are fine, baby is fine, my tummy is now fine, but I spent about 48 hours in lockdown with only Gatorade, bananas and dry toast (oh, and lots of expensive movies from the hotel TV) for company. I felt so bad for ruining the babymoon, and now owe the Mr. a very large (probably sexual) favor for the fact that he carried a specimen of my poop from the hotel back to the hospital for analysis. Is that love, or what?
So, the babymoon was not quite what we expected. But that's not even the worst part.
After ALL THAT POOPING, I was still up 4 pounds at my OB appointment this morning.
4 pounds. WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?!?!