Hell Day, or in which I give the baby cake for breakfast, ketchup for lunch, and realize I'm not in college anymore

For most of my life, we've spent Thanksgiving in a beach house on Hatteras Island. When I was in elementary school, and middle school, and high school going to Hatteras really sucked. I was never allowed to bring a friend, and the kids from the family we share the house with were all younger than me, and there was an eight year gap between me and the family's daughter. I spent many Thanksgivings bored and restless and resenting my parents for making me come on the stupid trip. College changed all that when I had the freedom to arrive when I chose and leave when I chose. I'd drive down for a night or two, eat my fill, and head home. When Husband started coming around, Thanksgiving improved quite a bit. Finally, I was allowed to have a friend at the beach with me! Finally, I had someone to hang out with and talk to. Since being at Thanksgiving didn't suck anymore, and since my mom started sponsoring spa day, and since the daughter from the other family and I are both adults (sort of), I stopped coming in just for a night or two. This year, I dragged it out as long as I could, getting in late on Tuesday night and leaving on Saturday morning when everyone else left.
I can't remember the last time I was around for the day after Thanksgiving. Apparently, each year, everyone drives for 45 minutes, rides a ferry for 45 minutes, and drives for another 30 minutes to an island that has even less life to it than Hatteras. Husband and I, while not feeling particularly social, didn't want to be rude, and there was the promise of going out to lunch, so we tagged along on this year's outing to Ocracoke Island.
We drove, with four grown people and one small person, in our Civic, until we got to the ferry. Mr. Independent wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy with me since I took his cake away from him earlier that morning. Husband wasn't happy, since he found out that I'd allowed Mr. Independent to eat "gake" for breakfast. I wasn't happy because if Husband didn't want Mr. Independent to eat cake for breakfast, then he could have dragged his butt out of bed at 7:15 like I did and given the child a proper breakfast rather than fussing at me about it.

Exhibit A: Mr. Independent licking the last remnants of cake off of his fingers.

The ferry kept Mr. Independent entertained for awhile, as did Goodnight, Moon (in the middle of the day).

Exhibit B: Me, reading a book, which is not Goodnight, Moon, while Mr. Independent wins the pacifier battle.

He was clearly tired, as evidenced by him getting up at 7:15 that morning, and eating an improper breakfast, but he would not sleep. He preferred fussing and playing the game where he wants to go to whoever is not currently holding him, but only for about a second and then he wants to go to whoever was just holding him. It's an awesome game, I promise.
His mood had deteriorated by the time we got to the restaurant, and he asked over and over and over again for milk. We promised to get him some milk, as well as a grilled cheese sandwich. The milk arrived, and Mr. Independent took a sip, got angry at it, swatted it like a kitten swats a string toy and squawked. We (okay, I) spent the time between when he got his milk and when our food arrived trying to keep Mr. Independent sitting in his high chair and prevent him from getting us kicked out of Howard's Pub. When the food finally did arrive, Mr. Independent glared at it. Then he glared at me, patiently and lovingly tearing his grilled cheese into toddler sized portions. Then he glared at it again, and swatted his plate. It barely stayed on the table. I decided to pour some ketchup onto his plate, thinking that maybe he wanted to dip his grilled cheese in ketchup. He eyed the ketchup, then took his index finger, dipped it in the ketchup and sucked his finger. He repeated with the rest of his fingers. No amount of coaxing could get him to eat anything other than ketchup for lunch that day, and finally, I gave up trying and requested that the Mom of the Year award be sent to me in tequila form.

Exhibit C: ketchup for lunch. I guess it's sort of a vegetable.

We finally left the restaurant, drove around the island, and Mr. Independent finally fell asleep in the car. I informed Husband on the way home that I needed wine, and requested that he stop at Food Lion so I could purchase some Arbor Mist. Usually I don't drink wine like that, but Arbor Mist, set in the freezer for several hours, turns into an Arbor Mist slurpee. It's something we did in college occasionally, and I felt nostalgic. I grabbed a large bottle of blackberry merlot and strawberry something, and we headed home.
Several hours later, the baby was in bed, the parents were in bed, and it was just us kids, but now in semi-grown up form. We had wine, shots of Jaeger, board games, a deck of cards, leftover pizza, and ramen noodles. It was great. I ended the evening in an eyepatch.

Exhibit D: Eyepatches

I didn't feel drunk. I'd tried to match my alcohol with water and food. I went to bed and slept soundly until 5 a.m. when I ran to the bathroom to puke my brains out. I eventually scraped myself off the bathroom floor and crawled into bed whimpering just loud enough to wake Husband.
Murmphsmurm? he asked.
No, I replied. I'm really sick.

Murmphsmuruhumphhup, he commiserated.
I wasn't satisfied with his response, so I did what any good wife would do in my situation. I poked him, repeatedly, until he rolled over, woke up, and started speaking English.
I'm really sick, I repeated. I don't know why. I didn't drink that much.
No, you didn't, he agreed.
I don't know why I'm sick. I feel horrible. I want to die.
You don't want to die, he said.
Yes, I do.
Husband fell back asleep. I didn't. I lay in bed for the next two hours praying that my internal organs would stay internal and that I'd be granted at least a little sleep before the five hour car ride home.
I thought about everything I'd eaten that day. I thought about all I drank. I thought about everything I'd done and watched on TV and read, and somewhere around 8 a.m., it hit me. Blackberry merlot. Merlot is red wine. Red wine makes me violently ill. I'd had blackberry merlot slushies with my husband and friends. Just because it was cheap didn't mean it wasn't still red wine. I woke Husband because I knew he'd want to know as well. I moaned to him what I'd just realized. He shrugged his shoulder, burrowed further under the covers, and mumbled, Why are you telling me this? I didn't know. Why do I ever tell him anything? I thought back to the last time I'd gotten sick off of wine. June 1, 2008. Husband's birthday. We'd gone to a fancy French restaurant. I anguished over the wine list desperately wanting a glass of red, but knowing that red makes me mean-and occasionally ill. I ordered the red anyway and found myself, at 2 a.m. with my head over the toilet praying that my puking would not wake the baby. I think I'm allergic to red wine, I announced to my mother and Husband the next day. As I explained several years of corretaional evidence, the nodded and humored me, and for once didn't tell me that my theory was stupid. I vowed to give it up and stick with white, which doesn't make me ill, and only makes me occasionally mean. And I did, until I forgot that cheap sorority girl red wine is still red wine and red wine makes me violently ill. Lesson learned.