The other night we were discussing possible Easter plans and whether or not we will go away this year. As we were talking, I could not escape the niggling memory in the back of my brain, one that I had locked firmly away into that vault labelled “better forgotten”, but was now desperately clawing its way back into my consciousness. I could vaguely hear the words “remember that Easter trip” being urgently repeated over and over again.
Remember that Easter trip? How could I possibly forget…
After spending a few days away on the coast over Easter with blissful weather we packed up and started to head home on the Monday night. Unfortunately, at least a thousand other people had the same idea and seemingly decided to leave the peninsula at the same time in the evening as us.
After 10 minutes in the car we had to pull over as our 6 year old wanted to take his jumper off. Five minutes after that he was asking for water. Five minutes after that he complained his tummy hurt. I said: “You don’t feel like throwing up do you?”
“Well, here is a little towel just in case”
Two seconds later: “Bllleeeuuurrrgghhh”. The big vom. Then again. We had no choice but to pull over in busy traffic on the main highway. I got out and ran around to his side of the car as he vomited again.
Problem: One small hand towel is no match for 3 massive vomits. Especially as instead of vomiting into it as you or I may do, he had tried to stop the inevitable from happening by holding the towel against his mouth (remember being a kid and trying to stop the vomit from coming out??). This meant that it kind of EXPLODED all over his face, up his nose, over his glasses, all over his pjs, and generally over the entire back seat of the car.
There I was, on the side of the highway with the back passenger door open, sizing up this vomit explosion, with about 1 million cars and road trains whizzing past me at 100km all in a hurry to get, well, past me. Squinting my eyes against the dust and exhaust fumes I opened the boot and wouldn’t you know it, all the kids clothes and even the dirty clothes bag had been packed on the bottom. My helpful husband suggested it was only 5 mins to the next town where we could stop and deal with our situation appropriately. My poor son. I tried to reassure him it wouldn’t be long as I shut the door on this vomit covered munchkin, who was now also shaking from the cold and the fact he had just purged all the heat from his body.
Remember all of those cars and trucks that were whizzing past at 100km hour just a minute before? Each and every one of these vehicles created a bottleneck as we approached the town, turning our 5 minute trip into 20. Twenty very silent minutes in our smelly, smelly car.
That was plenty of time for me to repeatedly hit myself over the head with the metaphorical guilt stick, replaying our conversation at the dinner table when I had insisted he eat his lasagna as he had been “eating too much chocolate and you will have some real food, blah, blah, blah”, even though he kept protesting that he didn’t like it and it was making him feel sick.
Finally, we arrived at the service station and pulled over. Had to smile as I lifted up the centre console to get the tissues and guess what else was there: a sick bag. Anyway, I lifted him out of the car, stripped him off and wiped him down with an entire pack of wet ones, and redressed him in some trackies and jumper I managed to find. I then wiped down his car seat and the back seat and put him back in the car sitting on a clean towel, with vomit bag firmly in hand.
Now everything was sorted I opened the other door to give our 3 year old a kiss and what did I see? The poor boy’s face covered in his brother’s vomit. It had been for over 20 minutes. He did not say a word, nor even try to wipe it off. Just sat there through the whole ordeal with that horrible stinky vomit on his face!!!
So that will go down in the annals as OUR family Easter story.
I think we might stay home this year after all………