Vomit Part I

Let's just say the Vomit series will probably go on longer than the Rocky series. Let me set the scene. Thanksgiving 2006. 9 PM. In the parking lot behind a sketchy liquor store. I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll back up. Thanksgiving is probably my favorite holiday. Football, wine, unbelievable food. We go to my grandparents house. We usually get there around 1. There is a constant flow of food. The kind of food that a 3-year old can really eat as much or as little as he wants. Of whatever he wants. Who knows what he ate. If I had to guess, I'd say chips, nuts, cheese, crackers, pepperoni, pork paté, goldfish crackers, turkey, squash, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, stuffing, squash, bread, carrots, cheesecake, butter tarts, pumpkin pie, apple pie, whoopie pies, fudge, beer, wine (no wait, that's me) all with gravy. We watch some football, laugh with family and then head home. 8:55 PM. As Boy gets tired he demands milk. I have no idea what he's eaten and I can't stand whining. Sure, here ya go. He fills his belly with milk in a sippy cup and we hit the road. About a mile or 2 down the road (\'oerwgujkpkkp\\\\---Sorry, Girl is interrupting me with typing, back to the story) Boy starts coughing. Then a wretch. A dead giveaway. His belly is full of God-knows-what. PULL OVER! We're never in time. This one is particularly bad. It hits the back of my seat. Velocity. I'm shotgun. Mommy is driving by cause of the wine. Then wave 2. Oh no. It's always in waves. We make it into the back parking lot behind said sketchy liquor store. Middle of November New England. Boy is half naked. Vomiting like a 60 year old wino. I'm holding him up. I'm good in crisis mode. We have a 20-minute drive in front of us. About a year ago I decided to keep a spare pack of wipes in the car. They, of course are missing. You ever try telling a cold, sick 3-year old that they must get back into the vomit covered seat for safety? The smell? Not good.