from bliss to barf

I want to say right upfront that I would never try and topple Marla's current reign as gross-out queen. But people, I am warning you now: if you have a weak stomach or possibly are above listening to people talk about barf or have an aversion to listening to ME bitch about anything, move right the fuck along. Like, now.

This past weekend we enjoyed two blissful days on Lake Huron, where my parents have retired. Beautiful sun, cartons of potato salad, other people to look after my child - what could be better? I got a chance to finish a book and eat my face off and watch my daughter soak up the attention of her grandparents, and generally felt much rejuvenated by the time we started the 3 hour drive home. Even Alice cooperated for most of the ride, and I felt like everything was right with the world.

Until about 30 minutes from Toronto where the sun started to turn into a giant ball of smog and the QEW was packed with stupid fuckers on motorbikes and my daughter started whining about "getting out of this car NOW!" And while I tried to close my eyes and go to my happy place of beach and beer and potato salad, she started kicking my chair and shrieking. And of course instead of offering a comforting "we'll be home soon!" I whined right back at her "stop kicking my chair, Alice, and just try to be patient! Remember we talked about PATIENCE??" (I said, barely hanging on myself). Her kicking intensified and when I whipped my head back intending to go all mommy dearest on her, she coughed once and barfed all over herself, the car seat, and my friend sitting in the back seat. I felt terrible, of course, because the poor thing was terrified and feeling sick and all I did was yell at her. And of course I couldn't get to her because of the stupid carseat.

At this point we were only about 15 minutes from home so it wasn't so bad. Matt started accelerating to get us home faster which put us all more on edge. So I alternated between trying to soothe Alice from my seat with "it's OK sweetie, everything is going to OK" to "good LORD Matt, slow the hell down!" The smell of barf was so intense, and because our luxury 1990 Honda has a) a broken air conditioner and b) windows that are broken and won't go down, it was not pleasant. As soon as we got home I immediately threw her in the bathtub, cleaned her up and hugged her a lot. And after some soup and gingerale, she was good as gold.

I, on the other hand, had lost all memories of the blissed-out weekend. Funny how that happens. You'd think that 15 minutes of pure hell and chaos still couldn't hold a candle to 48 hours of relaxation and rest. But apparently, barf still trumps a holiday anytime.