DAY THREE

This day undoubtedly was the worst day ever. Kaileigh and I got up early to go to school; she was going on a field trip with her class to Legoland and I had volunteered to go along. I made her a big breakfast: scrambled eggs, sausage, toast and orange juice while I had a banana and some tea. My headache had not dissipated since the day before so I was gearing up for a crazy day. We arrived at eight in the morning to fifty 2nd graders hopping around, jumping out of their skin, waiting for the bus. Bravo to all the teachers for organizing this event and being fearless enough to do it. As a parent, I imagine I stood there in awe of the enterprise.

I knew that the minute we parked on that big blanket of asphalt in front of Legoland that I was in disastrous need of caffeine. My head was exploding. It was warming up, too, the sunshine beating down on my naked arms felt like fire. We were assigned ten kids between four of us adults, five girls and five boys. Between the parents prattle and the kids screaming, I felt like I was on the rollercoaster to hell—with no stewardess in sight. At one point, in line for the Tower of Power ride, I stood there reeling, almost as if I were not in my body at all, but floating above it. I was in shock, maybe. Shock from not having an iced latte in my hand. Just the sight of a Starbucks that morning made me want to openly weep. I was about to completely unravel when a distant voice announced, “lunchtime!” and my nerves softened. That is, until I remembered the broccoli, tomatoes and carrots that awaited me in my brown paper bag. I was tempted to snag the little girl’s lunch next to me: egg salad sandwich, salt and vinegar potato chips, tapioca pudding and oreo cookies with milk. Dang.

The day stretched out for miles ahead of me—two hours ticked by so languidly it was as if I could feel each minute drip down my drumming head. The heat robbed my skin of any moisture and the kids dangled from my arms like I was a human monkey bar. I had to fain a full bladder just so I could escape into the cool dark bathroom, lock myself in a stall and have some alone time. Breath deeply. Splash cold water on my face.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, I was done. My intolerance had reached new levels to the point that some of the mothers looked at me sorrowfully and asked me if they could buy me a coffee. I must have been complaining. I saw it on their faces. Actually, it was probably better that I told them about my raw food diet project so I could keep myself accountable. Because at that moment I would have scratched somebody’s eyes out for a Starbucks iced tall double-shot. But I am not a quitter! No!

But then something really strange happened. We packed into the car to head home—an hour and a half drive up the 5 and 405 freeways in traffic—when I started to feel physically sick. Thank god I wasn’t driving. I sat up front and urged the mother who was driving to keep talking because every inch of that highway felt worse. My head was spinning, I broke out into a cold sweat, and my stomach was playing a mean game of hopscotch. I didn’t know if I was going to make it. As droplets formed on my forehead and a watercourse ran between my shoulder blades, I felt myself faintly saying, “Can you pull over to the side of the road so I can throw up in that bush?” But I only said it in my mind. I held on, sometimes quite literally. By the time we pulled into the driveway, I barely made it to my bed before passing out. After a little while, Kaileigh came in and snuggled up next to me, curled her little hand into mine and said, “I’m tired, mama.” That’s the last thing I remembered.