We are on the Fun Apartment’s annual staff retreat out here in the Midwest and my eyes are getting all stretched out from looking at all these giant spaces of, well, space.
In addition to space, we are also seeing a lot of the technicolor yawn. Yep, that’s right. These boys are not used to riding in cars, so when we peel off for great white North, there seems to be nothing but cookies tossed in the back seat. In addition to needing to be strapped in and out every ten minutes, they also vomit rather spectacularly at regular intervals. Yum.
This is not a new problem, however. I even cleaned vomit out of the infant car seat. And each time it happens we get a little smarter about it.
Because we have a system for dealing with the blown chunks. It involves a lot of bags. In fact, we are even ready to officially endorse the bags of this large regional chain over those of this large regional chain.
Another secret weapon is this.
By some members of our household it is know as the puke box. I like to think of it as “Cookies in. Cookies Out.” But by whatever name, it is essential to our travel supplies. If one lines it with the aforementioned bags, it is entirely sealable and reusable.
On Day One, there were no fewer than four upchucks. Three were fairly manageable, and confined themselves to the curvy borderlands of New Jersey. But the last one, in the flatness of Ohio? That one surprised us. We were caught unawares, and so was the gas station where we stopped to spray everyone down and change into the backup huking clothes. They were caught so unaware that their bathrooms were out of order. The man of my dreams stood there with puke in his upturned hands and a look of horror on his face. The nice people there suggested that he try the Dairy Queen next door. Off he went, with the cookie-tosser in tow, while I proceeded to mop up the evidence. Back they came, carrying a bag of Dilly Bars. “The bathroom door had a code,” the man of my dreams explained sheepishly.
So guess what we had for dinner. In the car.
But now after that promising beginning, the vomiting team seems to have dry heaves. Do people need time to get used to riding in cars? Or is it just an auspicious start to an awesome summer vacation?
Probably, they are just waiting for me to relax on a nice, busy stretch of Chicago traffic jam. Seriously, I think there are still people trying to get home from the Chicago World Fair of 1893. Maybe they are feeling sick after riding the first Ferris Wheel.
P.S. My brother in law insists that “selling Buicks” is another vomiting synonym. I would be happy to learn more of these, if you have any to share.