Last night, Matt decided to make homemade ice cream. He made the list of what he needed from the grocery store after checking the pantry to see what we had on hand.
As he is throwing everything together in a big bowl, he says, "I am questioning myself now on this evaporated milk that was in the pantry. It expired in March 2010."
I made a 'pffft' sound and told him not to be silly. "It isn't that old," I said.
"You know I said 2010, right?", he said.
Mixing. Mixing. Clumpy. Whisk. Whisk faster. Clumps all gone.
Ice cream was made, and it was thoroughly enjoyed by everyone but me. (It just doesn't taste well with my bala de plata, if you know what I mean.)
An hour later, Matt says his stomach hurt, but just a little. I laughed.
Ian had zero complaints.
Audrey says her stomach hurts, but I tell her she is overexaggerating and it is likely just PMS. I give her something to make it all go away.
When going to bed, Isaac says his stomach hurts. But, he thinks he is just hungry. (Dude, you just ate ice cream.)
Goodnight John-John. Lights out.
Audrey comes back into our room. Crying. Stomach still hurts. She doesn't know... she doesn't feel like she is going to puke. Just hurts. I then tell her she is just being the queen of all drama queens and send her off to bed. Momma is tired.
12:30am. Lights on. And... she is puking. Of course she is puking.
She spent the night on the bathroom floor.
The one time I give up being the cautious one, we poison our daughter.
It is now 9:00am the following day, and Ian is standing next to me, begging for some of the homemade ice cream.
Hmmmm.... decisions, decisions.