Colonial guilt

Isn't it ironic that my favorite holiday is the Fourth of July and I'm stuck in this place (*nudge nudge* "England," from whose grasp we celebrate our independence) on that date this year? AND NEXT YEAR? Vaughn has two red-white-and-blue outfits to celebrate this holiday, and I have even acquired face paints so that I can decorate her face with stars and fireworks and thus pretend she was in a parade earlier in the day. I am also making red-white-and-blue cupcakes, I'm hoping to grill sausages and I will probably throw together some green bean casserole. Mark's taken the afternoon off (at my request). Everything's all American.

But the catch is that Vaughn has the flu for the seventh time since we moved here. Last night when we put her to bed, I said to Mark, "Should we sleep with the door open so we can hear her cry [over the white noise of the fans (no A/C here)], in case she vomits on herself in the night or something?" Mark said we'd hear her even with the door shut and I concurred.

We were so wrong. We woke up this morning to find our beautiful baby girl writhing in the crust of her own dried-up vomit. If I'd been half as worried about her illness as I had been about the freaking Fourth of July ... well, I can't even finish that thought. I just feel terribly guilty. Maybe I deserve to be in this godforsaken place on July 4 this year. But Vaughn doesn't!