In an attempt to figure out what is wrong with me - well at least with my blood and headaches - we traveled up to the laceName w:st="on">NationallaceName> laceName w:st="on">NavallaceName> laceName w:st="on">MedicallaceName> laceType w:st="on">CenterlaceType> at Bethesda.

Given the amount of time we spent at the facility between two appointments, time spent in waiting rooms and time spent in the pharmacy area waiting for my number to be called "woo-hoo! Only 50 people ahead of me" (after husband had the foresight to walk down and pull a number while I trekked down to try to schedule an MRI) I am pretty sure I did not get the presidential treatment.

The long day meant Taylor spent a lot of time between her car seat and the stroller.

I should backtrack a little to say that several months ago at her first appointment with the pulmonologist; he said that her acid reflux exacerbated her lung issues. He also said that the worst position she could be in was "wadded up" in the infant carrier. So, we have tried to keep time spent in the car at a minimum.

Ideally, at that point I would have rushed out and bought a convertible car seat which would allow her to sit more upright thus easing the acid reflux back-up.

Well, actually, I did. But, a convertible car seat, and two booster seats simply will not fit in the back seat of a Volvo 850 wagon.

No matter how much cussing you do while trying to configure it. It is just not going to happen.

So, the next logical thing to do would be to buy a larger vehicle.

I hear tell that there are people who show up at a dealership, test drive a vehicle and start the paperwork process.

Not my husband.

He researches everything down to the most finite detail.

And, when we are going from years of not having a car payment to dropping that kind of money, I really can't blame him.

We had narrowed our decision down to the Honda Odyssey or the Toyota Sienna.

Husband wanted to stop at two dealerships on the way home from Bethesda to do one final comparison on the two before making a decision.

Unfortunately for Taylor that meant a lot of time wadded up in the seat. But she was a little trooper.

Until we were about 15 miles from home.

She fussed and then she blew. Copious amount of projectile vomit landed on McKinley's shirt.

The freak-out that came from the backseat was a bit unexpected and over the top.

Then I realized what the two older girls were saying between their sobs.

"Is she going to die!?"

They still haven't realized that Taylor is a much healthier baby girl than she was when she came home from the NICU.

They still think that the slightest illness is going to land her back in the hospital. After all, it has happened twice.

And, in their 6-year-old and 4-year-old minds there is nothing slight about projectile vomiting.

Once I convinced them (and myself by leaning over the seat to make sure she was able to bring it all up and out and wasn't gagging) that she was fine, I began trying to get some of the mess cleaned up.

I handed McKinley a blanket to wipe off her shirt and said "Wow, she really got you didn't she?"

"She can puke on me whenever she wants. Just as long as she doesn't die."

Now that is some serious sisterly love.