Home. Sick.

There's nothing quite like returning home after an extended vacation--during which Quinn and I spent some quality time with some of my best friends and their kids, who are quickly becoming Quinn's best friends, too--only to be met with a low-grade fever, chills, and severe stomach cramping. It's like my body associates Phoenix with chemo and went ahead and got symptomatic three days before treatment. Nice work, Body.

We've been home approximately 42 hours, and I've spent 20 of them sleeping, and most of the other 22 racing to the bathroom. Yesterday, I tried not to snap at Quinn as he climbed all over me on the couch. "Please, not on my stomach," I begged him. "Mommy hurts."

"I hurt, too," the poor guy started repeating.

We spent Saturday afternoon watching a superb parenting mix of Backyardigans, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and Cars while I tried not to vomit on the couch.

I feel better today, but still not well enough to eat much other than bananas and toast. I have chemo tomorrow morning, so I'm sure that will improve things in the nausea department. Wink, wink.

Can't we just go back on vacation? It appears to be a surefire way to make me feel better.

We spent ten wonderful days in Maryland, DC, and Virginia, welcoming in summer in true summer fashion: marveling at lightning bugs, playing board games, eating steamed crabs and corn on the cob, watching fireworks, splashing in mud puddles after intense afternoon thunderstorms, celebrating a friend's birthday, and lounging around poolside.

All of which beats a stomach bug when it's 110 degrees out and you are facing chemo any day.

As Quinn put it when we were driving home from the airport Friday night, "I don't wanna go home! I wanna go mommy's friend's house!" I agree, buddy. I agree.