I've been a bad blogger, and I know it, but sometimes it feels good to be bad. No, really. It does. Grab your puke cups and let me tell you all about it.
Saturday, July 16, 5 a.m.
My alarm goes off. I ignore it.
Saturday, July 16, 8 a.m.
I've been pushing the snooze for three hours. At 10-minute intervals. Anyone who roomed with me in college knows this is not an exaggeration. I wake up in a panic, and realize we are now two hours past when I wanted to be on the road for our 13-hour drive to Atlanta. Shit.
Saturday, July 16, 9:30 a.m.
We are finally on the road after a solid hour of MomPanic. We stop at the first McDonald's on our trip, in Bettendorf, IA. We order breakfast, because I cleared out the fridge yesterday so things won't mold while we are gone. I order orange juice for the kids, because it's healthy and will offset all of the other crap we are eating. (This is called "foreshadowing".)
Saturday, July 16, 9:40 a.m.
Current Husband looks at me in a panic and says, "Oh No." This means we must find the nearest McDonalds immediately, as they have the cleanest bathrooms. His uber-sensitive digestive system has failed us all, 10 minutes into our 13-hour trip. We find said McDonalds in Moline, IL, where the kids and I will sit for the next 15 minutes while they abuse me for letting Daddy order a sausage biscuit.
Saturday, July 16, 10:35 a.m.
Finally, we are closing in on hour first hour down on the trip, when Youngest Daughter says, "Mommy, when you find the next bathroom, I need you to stop." Really?!? She can hold out a little longer, right? "Um, Mommy, my stomach is a little upset." Crap. Hello McDonalds. Here we are again. I pull up into a spot, and walk around to the van door on her side, and find to my dismay that she is still in her pajamas. There is a man in an SUV next to us, apparently waiting for someone, and we are providing a nice distraction for him.
ME: "Honey, you have to put some clothes on to go into McDonald's."
ME: "Because you can't be out in public in your pajamas."
(NOTE: Unless you are me in 2003 and you are sleep deprived and desperately need Motrin for a sick kid and the only grocery store in your small town closes in 10 minutes. Think you will see no one, run into school principal, school nurse, and pastor. Understand you deserve this.)
YD: "I don't have time, Mom, ...BRULLLLP."
THIS IS WHEN YD VOMITS WARM ORANGE JUICE ALL OVER SIDE OF VAN, HERSELF, AND ME. MAN IN SUV LOOKS AWAY IN HORROR.
We march into McDonalds, both covered in warm puke, past full line of people waiting for drive thru who undoubtedly deleted orange juice from their order. Or left altogether. I take poor little YD into bathroom and wash her off, change her clothes, and stand under hand driers so the vomit on my shorts will at least dry so we don't have to smell it in the van. We get back to the van, and the SUV next to us is surprisingly gone. I dig through our luggage and find a clean pair of shorts, and change into them behind the McD's dumpster because I honestly do not give a shit anymore. I'm done impressing anyone here. We discuss returning home. CH and I decide to carry on and hope for the best.
Saturday, July 16, 11:22 a.m.
YD vomits again in plastic grocery bag in back seat. I blame Rush Limbaugh, whose voice seems to be settling CH's intestinal discomfort. We stop at a BP, because our theme has become "environmentally damaging". I clean YD up again, and buy some Dramamine, which God made for situations such as these. CH and I again discuss abandoning travel plans, but we've both taken off a week of vacation, we have non-refundable hotel rooms in Nashville, and our friends in Atlanta are expecting us at 9 p.m. and have scheduled accordingly. We carry on. The Dramamine works.
YD and her puke cup, upgraded from her pajamas and a plastic bag.
All told, we visited seven McDonalds bathrooms in 15 hours across five states. I'd like to take a moment to thank McDonalds for keeping their bathrooms cleaner than your average gas station. The Son was tapped to take one for the team, because I don't use a bathroom without buying some product.
He's a giver, that one. Only a 12-year-old boy
would still be packing away food next to
a vomiting third grader.
Will we make it to Atlanta? Or will our ADHD take us off the road to unplanned and uncharted destinations? Stay tuned for Part 2 of "Get In The Van. I Have Candy." on Tuesday!