Road trips. Joy. Pain. Vomit.
I should probably just stop right there, but you know me. I’m going to share way more than I should so that you can all
suffer enjoy the memory right along with us.
Wednesday before Thanksgiving we left our house and headed to Paonia, Colorado to share the holiday with family. A little before Vail, our youngest kept saying that his stomach hurt and that he thought he was going to throw up. We offered him a drink of water and kept driving. None of our kids had ever been car sick before, so we didn’t believe him. Later, we would regret doubting his announcement. Major regret.
He then zonked out and slept all the way to Glenwood Springs where we stopped for dinner. A chicken quesadilla dinner. Nothing fancy. Not all that memorable, really. Unless we meet again later.
Just before Redstone at the base of McClure Pass we heard a volcanic sound from the backseat. Nooooooooooooo!
He was covered in runny quesadilla. Slightly blended chunks and stomach acid dripped from every bit of backseat upholstery. He even managed to land some inside his toy bag and the satchel of snacks we’d stored between the brothers for safe keeping. Not so safe if there are eruptions involved.
Using three antique baby wipes that had lived a long life at the bottom of my purse and every fast food napkin in the car, we managed to clean up enough to drive the last hour of the trip. We landed in our relatives’ driveway requesting buckets of hot soapy water, old rags, bleach. Anything.
Other than this volcanic misfortune, family time over the holidays was precious and every minute the kids spent with their cousins was worth the road trip. We’ll definitely be back next year. But we’ll pay more attention when the little one says his stomach hurts.