Once upon a time, about a month ago, I decided that it would be really fun to take my children to St. Louis for a long weekend, to see my brother and his family. And so I bought plane tickets and my sister-in-law cleaned her guest bathroom and we arrived last night after a completely uneventful direct flight.

We ate a late dinner, watched a Backyardigans episode, and plopped the boys into sleeping bags in the basement. They went IMMEDIATELY to sleep, without a single incident of playing or poking each other.

And I let my guard down.

At 1:00 am I woke up because Henry was tossing and turning and moaning in his sleep. At 3:00 am I put him in the big bed with me. At 5:00 am he woke up crying.

And then he threw up. All over the brand new carpet in my brother’s playroom.

Henry has recovered; he watched an ungodly amount of television this morning, played outside this afternoon, and sang all the songs from his Christmas pageant during dinner. He is soaking in the tub as I write this and talking NON STOP, which is par for the course. So far, none of the other children (Charlie and my nieces, who are four and one) have thrown up.

This afternoon when my niece woke up, I went upstairs with my sister-in-law to get her out of the crib. We left my brother alone in the basement with all three of the older kids. When we came back, he had made body armor for all of them, out of cardboard and duct tape. Then he chased them around the yard for an hour.

It’s the perfect family vacation. Sort of.