Each of the kids in my family had the chicken pox twice, supposedly a rare occurrence that’s “not supposed to happen.” It happened, though. I mean, when you go to school every day and have two siblings every day, it shouldn’t be such a shocker that it happens.

When we were little, my family had planned a trip to Disneyland. The pox were making their second round through my sister, brother, and me. The exact order of how we recontracted the virus is murky to me now, but at this point, my brother was the one covered in “itchy.”

His prognosis was looking dim. We were convened around the kitchen table, my parents in serious discussion about whether or not we should still go to Los Angeles.

My brother, maybe six or so, piped up bravely but meekly from his seat at the table, “You can still go to Disneyland. I’ll stay home with Lucy.” He was always such a noble soul. (By the way, I grew up in a privileged Asian American Fremont family and we had a housekeeper. She was awesome.)

“SEE? WE CAN STILL GO! Twin said we can!”

You’d have thought a chicken had just crashed in through the second floor, my sister was so excited to jump in.

Honestly, I can’t remember if we went to Disneyland following that “family meeting,” and I obviously don’t remember if Twin was a part of it or not.

But I supposed I’m feeling very childlike now, very disappointed and sad that Boo is ill and won’t be joining Girl Hack and DerBear and me as we head for the sun in Cabo San Lucas. This would have been our first plane trip together.

Oh, well. Next time. This, too, shall pass.

Update: I sent this someecard to him yesterday, along with the threat that I’m going to put it on a cabana boy while I’m south of the border.