We salute our marriage this 4th of July.

Bub is known for being a bit of a romantic. For holidays he often has elaborate plans that make me swoon and pat myself on the back for picking a good one. Fourth of July is never different; he has made red, white and blue cakes in the past, taken me out for hotdogs, tried to find fireworks and if all else fails, just treats me to a brilliant day where he says those amazing, awe-inspiring three words:

"It's on me."

This year, of course, was no different. We planned brunch and a walk around Dun Laoghaire, maybe a picnic and then another meal out, restaurant undetermined but bound to be a favorite of mine. Since the holiday sort of slipped my mind this year I was touched he remembered and wanted to make sure my day was great, even if I couldn't be home for it.

The universe said, "Eff that!"

We both woke up this morning feel a bit dodgy in the tummy but passed it off because Mister Man had slept until 8am. 8 AM. 8 IN THE MORNING. He usually rises between 6.30 and 7.00 so when we found ourselves peeking at the clock and seeing the late time, we decided our rumbly tummies would not deter us from a fabulous day.

Mister Man eats breakfast and then we were ready to set off to Dun Laoghaire. Except it was raining. Pretty hard. Fine! Let's take the car. Into the car we go and to Harry's where they do amazing french toast and Mister Man manages to tolerate being seated for more than five minutes. He flirts with the blonde waitress. And the blonde restaurant patron sitting next to us. They all smile and wonder why his mother can't keep him from bothering other people while they eat breakfast. Because I'm that mom! Ha ha!

No, seriously, we try to have him not bother people but it's either let me stare at you and offer you his favorite red cup or hear him scream. We are doing you a favor, we swear.

Somewhere in there we start reading "Good Night New Jersey" and I start bawling. I wasn't even hiding it. I couldn't help it; the tears just kept pouring down my face while Bub looked at me with sympathy knowing I was missing my homeland and there was nothing he could do but distract me by offering to buy me things. Smart man, Bub.

After brunch where Mister Man ate all of Bub's eggs and I managed to polish off all of my french toast even with though my stomach was doing a brilliant imitation of a washing machine in AGITATE mode, we headed down to The People's Park where there is both a play area and a market. Mister Man played on the jungle gym for the first time, giving me a heart attack every time he stepped away from one of our hands.

Hello Helicopter Parenting! My motto is "Hover, hover and hover some more until your kid needs therapy."

I took around at the stalls but both Bub and I are starting to turn green. Bub is pushing me to leave because he stomach is about to give out. After I push him to his limits we head for the car and go home. Mister Man falls asleep on the five minute drive and so when we get home, a much needed nap is had.

SO FAR SO GOOD. Sure, we've had a few set backs with the public displays of emotion, the rainfall and the need to throw up breakfast but we think we're doing to make it!

Yeah, welll, the afternoon kicks in and so our stomach ban together to take us down. Picnic, you say? Not a chance! A family dinner out? Ha ha! You won't be eating anything ever again! Our stomachs are mean.

For the rest of the day Bub and I take turns looking after Mister Man. We do about 30 minutes at a time and then switch while the other slowly dies on the sofa. We turn on Peppa Pig all afternoon, let Mister Man be fed by a spoon instead of encouraging him to eat on his own, and give him a bottle instead of a sippy because he still effing hates sippies. We turn into the laziest parents ever.

To his credit, Mister Man was amazing. He is getting over a sickness himself -- first some kind of virus and then an allergic reaction to the medication he was given that gives him a rash all over his body -- but he did his best to just play. He played all afternoon in the living room and only a few times did we have to rush over and kiss a bumped knee or take something out of his hand that he shouldn't have. I think he genuinely knew mama and dada weren't the best and so he pulled out his best behavior. I fully expect this to come back to us 10 fold and I welcome it.

Now, he's in bed, 20 minutes early because getting him into the bath, lotion'ed and into bed was nearly too much for the two of us. There is a kitchen of dirty dishes and bottles (this is our payback for the laziness with the bottles!) that we can't touch. We're both in bed just hoping that the magic get-well fairy will come through our window and make us better. If you see her, please send her our way.

At the end of this rubbish day I still have to give Bub and I a pat on the back; we managed to work together while not working at all. Somehow, by sick, married people telepathy, we figured out how to take care of our child while both of us moan and threaten to die right there on the floor, and not have to clean up any puke and I don't really think I can say the same for many Americans who will have to try to do the same tomorrow.

Happy 4th of July!

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Liz in Dublin