On the Ride Home...

I feel the need to purge this experience from my consciousness by regurgitating it onto a blog post. This is not for the squeamish.

The other day I picked Connor and Chloe up from daycare, as usual. Connor claimed that his head hurt, which I thought nothing of. We got in the car and hit the road. I was rocking out to NPR All Things Considered. The kids love to rock out to NPR. And by rocking out I mean yell and laugh and scream at each other in the back seat while I strain to hear about rising water temperatures in the arctic.

After about 5 minutes in the car, I notice in the rear-view mirror that Connor is crying. Not a loud, pitching-a-fit type cry which we see all too much of these days, but a silent, genuine cry. I say, "Connor, what's the matter, buddy?" In between sobs he says "My head rrreeaaallly hurts!" I reach behind my seat and rub his leg, telling him I'm sorry and that we can get him some medicine as soon as we get home.

As I speed down the interstate, all of the possible reasons for such a severe headache run through my mind. High fever? Migraine? Inoperable brain tumor?

A few seconds later, Connor says "Dad, I need to throw up."

The horror of all horrors. I can't imagine six words I fear more than those. See, I don't do vomit. I have a mortal fear of doing it myself, and consequently haven't in ... years. And when someone else shouts groceries in my presence, I usually run.

I frantically look for a place to pull over. Except that I'm in the MIDDLE OF THE FREAKING INTERSTATE, about to turn from I-55 onto 240, which is a pretty hectic interchange.

Not even a chance. I hear the telltale burp. I cuss loudly. I hear another burp.

And then it hits me. It literally hits me. In the back of the neck. Connor yaks, in a projectile manner, through the headrest of my seat. It covers my back. I'll spare you the details. Oh wait, I've already overloaded you with those.

I lean forward in my seat, all hunched over the wheel like an an old lady. Connor is instantly hysterical, as am I. I don't recall ever being ralphed on (baby spitup doesn't count-- this is WAAAAAY different). I try to utter some comforting words: "ohhhhh Connor, I'm so sorry, man, ohhhh man, oh gosh, oh man I'm sorry..." Actually, I'm trying to calm myself down as much as Connor. It doesn't work for either of us.

Sitting next to all this is Chloe, who is now also hysterical. Hell, I would be too, witnessing large numbers of Buicks being sold right next to me.

The smell hits me and I roll all of the windows all the way down. I look in the rearview again and notice that Connor has pushed himself up on his armrests, as large quantities of yakk on his shorts and seat keep him from sitting comfortably. In fact, he rides the whole rest of the way home in that pose. Can't blame the poor fella.

I think about pulling over on the interstate several times. But then what the hell would I do? No towels, no napkins, no change of clothes. I just go faster. We're still 10 minutes away from home!

I call Steph at home, to prepare her for our arrival. No answer. I think of other people to call, just because SOMEONE needs to know that my OWN SON has HAD AN ORAL MOVEMENT on my NECK.

After about 4 more tries, Steph finally answers. I stammer out something about how it was finally my turn-- the kids have both whistled beef in her car, but never in mine.

We finally arrive, and Steph greets us with towels and clothes in the driveway. It takes me hours to clean my car.

Connor was fine the next day. I may never recover.