Let me preface this by asking: have you already eaten? If so, fine. If not, you might want to come back later.
Caroline had a birthday party tonight and I was too tired to come up with a dinner plan after spending the entire day on the couch watching basketball, so I suggested that we drop her off and then take Edward and Patrick out for sushi.
As we pulled into the parking lot Patrick said, "Mom, just to let you know, I've had a slight headache all day and it's getting a little worse. Do you have anything with you?"
And I said, "Yeah, I think so. We'll get into the restaurant and you can get a coke or a tea and I probably have an ibuprofen."
Five minutes later we were seated and I found him an aleve and he ordered green tea. Then he curled up and shielded his eyes with his jacket. Which... ok. Right? No need to assume the worst. A little headache and it's not like we were at chuck e cheese; it was a dimly lit, quiet Japanese place.
Five minutes later he said, "I need to go home."
What I should have said is, "Fine."
What I actually said is, "Oh you'll be ok. Give the medicine a bit of time to kick in. Do you want some miso soup? That might feel good."
Five minutes after this he sat bolt upright and got that look on his face; the one that is all too familiar to anyone whose college roommate ever made what we now call 'some bad choices'.
"You can't throw up on the table!" I squealed. This, of course, was a lie. Of course he could throw up on the table. Fortunately he did not. He ran for the bathroom with a hand clapped over his mouth.
Steve looked at me. I looked at him. Edward looked at Patrick's ika.
"Is he going to eat that?" Edward asked, hopefully.
"Go after him!" I said to Steve. "Probably not," I said to Edward.
Steve and Patrick were gone for about ten minutes, during which time Edward methodically plowed his way through everyone else's dinner. When they returned Patrick looked much, much better. Steve, however, looked much worse.
"Well?" I said.
"What happened to the rest of the sushi?" asked Patrick.
"Four or five times," Steve answered me, tersely, and then, "Don't eat that!" as Patrick reached for the tobiko.
We ordered Patrick some soup and then a salad and I told him that I was sorry I hadn't listened to him when he said he wanted to go. Steve stared into space, shuddering while he absentmindedly drank the coke I had ordered for Patrick and I realized that he doesn't usually do sick. Like most modern fathers he can get his children breakfast, match mittens, brush the back molars, detangle wet hair and he has certainly wiped more bottoms than can be counted but I suspect he's never had to hold a vomiting kid over an appropriate receptacle in his life.
Not surprisingly, Steve chose not to finish his dinner.
In sum: blech.
PS I have to take Patrick to a neurologist but I have a hard time imagining how Patrick will track things like what he was doing before a headache started. He always seems so unaware until he is fifteen minutes away from throwing up in a restaurant. His headache diary will read: sleeping, headache but fine, sudden horrible blinding pain! fine again
PPS Oh and GUILT. I feel so GUILTY. If I was getting a migraine and I said I wanted to leave a restaurant and someone told me to drink some freaking miso soup????? Guuuuuiiiiiiilllllllt.