Today is my 29th birthday.

A couple hours ago I returned from the emergency room where I was pumped full of IV fluid and an anti-nausea medication to combat what we think was the world's worst case of food poisoning. Jon has it too, not quite as bad as my case, but since someone had to go home and put Leta to bed he didn't get the nice drugs delivered into his veins. He is now comfortably asleep next to me, beautiful and sick and deserving of the award for Husband and Father of the Year.

Today was one of the worst days of our lives.

I don't have time to write now, because I really need to get to bed and rest from this trip. I puked over 47 times today, and most of those times were empty pukes, dry heaving pukes, pukes spewed at the toilet on the plane somewhere over Nevada while Leta serenaded the rest of the plane with shrieking, flesh-eating screams. Mama was so dehydrated that the whole breastfeeding mechanism malfunctioned, and Leta went over 12 hours without eating or sleeping. We puked and screamed on the car ride to SFO, puked and screamed in the Sky Cap line, puked and screamed in the over-sized baggage line, puked and screamed when they made me take off my shoes to look for weaponry, puked and screamed while we waited for take-off, puked and screamed THE. WHOLE. WAY. HOME.

Thank you, Jon, for getting us home.

Yesterday, however, was one of the most glorious days of our lives, and I can't wait to tell you about it.