Puke and Rally

This weekend I will get in the car and drive with my family to Kansas City, to celebrate the wedding of my cousin and take part in the general scene-making my extended family is known for. It's going to be lovely and embarrassing in the best of ways.

The loveliness of the drive, on the other hand, depends entirely on my children's stomachs.

Last December, we drove the crew down to St. Louis. We were not in the car two hours before my then-two-year-old horked the entire contents of his stomach all over himself. I don't remember what he'd eaten that day, but apparently is was a lot and some of it was orange.

The image of him, standing outside in the dark gas station parking lot, covered in barf, crying, while headlights of other cars passed over him again and again ... well, it will stay with me a long time.

We (and by we, I mean my husband) had to carry him inside the gas station at arms length, clean him up in the pristine gas station bathroom, and put him in the footie-pajamas we'd packed. Another image I'll treasure is of him running through the gas-station McDonald's in Santa footie-pajamas, saying he was ready for more food now that he'd puked.

Memories . . . at the corner of my mind . . .

So basically I am hoping for smooth, dry, odorless sailing this weekend. But if not, at least I will have something to write about next week.