Buh Duh Buh Buh Daaah

You know that moment when you say, "Honey, I could really use a break. We should take the kids somewhere fun this weekend. I think name a town, USA would be fun. Don't you think that would be fun? Let's go." So plans get under way to go to Nameatown for the weekend and you know it will be stressful traveling less than four weeks after giving birth but it will mostly be fun and after all that's what families are for, to make happy memories with, right? You try to prepare ahead of time, but there's always busy-ness and time doesn't just grow on trees (see previous post for more commentary on this one) and before you know it, it's 3:30 pm on the day you are slated to leave and nothing is completed - a few (mostly) clean clothes are slopped into a travel bag awaiting their friends and some toiletries, the dirty dishes have taken to death rite mourning because they've given up hope of ever being washed, there are more crumbs than tile on your floor, and you are so tired you can't breathe. And you haven't eaten lunch. Or breakfast. Number Three poops bright blue (why?? how??) and Number Four launches an ocean of mustard into his carseat (see previous post for an explanation of "mustard", too ). You run him into the shower to hose him down and your vigilant daughters point out there is inexplicably a BEE in the shower. A bee. Seriously. (insert here the two most asked and least answered questions in my existence - why?? how??) The Mama Bear Rage starts flowing and I scream my frustration at this impudent insect and trap him in a broken plastic cup against the side of the stall and now scream in victory. Number Two runs and gets me a sheet of paper so we can cap the cup and release Stupid Bee into the wild, but Stupid Bee is apparently smarter than Smart Melted-Cheese-Brain Mom and he escapes into the great beyond of the house, which results in the girls screaming in terror (lots of screaming these days) while I turn my attention back to naked, starving, poopy Four who is screaming because he is, well, naked, starving, and poopy.
And now it's 5:00 and Josh arrives home to find things in pretty much this state. He is, of course, disappointed and silently screaming, but he's a gentleman so he doesn't scream out loud, just starts doing dishes and helping the kids with their chores. He doesn't scream out loud, that is, until he discovers Three has once again pooped blue (I really don't know how this is possible. The dog food she eats is brown and the play doh she last consumed was safety green. Blue poop is very improbable.) and then attempted to take herself to the toilet, where she horror-movie smeared it all over the bathroom and herself. He cleans her up while I continue the never ending process of collecting the entire house so we can leave town for three days. Finally, FINALLY, we are on the road and making decent progress. We stopped at McDonald's for dinner, which didn't quite live up to its I'm Lovin' It campaign, since they failed to give Number One a toy in his Happy Meal. Still though, it's going okay until Number One very definitely stops lovin' it and tells us he's feeling really sick and his stomach really hurts. We pull over to let him vomit, but apparently his digestive tract suffers from stage fright and waits until we're all tucked back in the car, warm and safe and I'm sitting next to him to help hold the bag and comfort and calm him. Then all of a sudden, buh duh buh buh daah, (that's the McDonald's jingle if you can't tell. Inserted here as a display of cruel irony.) the I'm Lovin' It food comes back to haunt all of us, down poor One's shirt and pants, his giant comforter, his sister's comforter that he was borrowing as a pillow, the floor, his seat, and my comfy travel yoga capris. Oh.My.Heck. NOT Lovin' It. This "break" I asked for is melting as quickly as a KitKat on a summer dashboard. Let me just drive home this point one more time. It's 11:30 pm. We've been in the car for five hours. I'm sitting smothered in my son's vomit and his sister is still not asleep because she's crazy and now she's gagging from watching the excitement in the back seat and also from the McNugget-y smell. And all this is happening on the trip I wanted to take as a break.
Alright, back to the action. So One is now completely exhausted and passing out, the late hour, illness, and small bit of Dramamine that stayed in his system all now taking their toll. As best I can, I peel him out of his clothes, wrap him in a still-clean blanket, and send him to sit in my recently vacated passenger seat. Not the safest place for a 6 year old, but it's clean and he can sleep there and if we would have been pulled over and the officer had taken issue with it, one look at my crazed, sleep-deprived, sputum-covered self would have been enough to send The Law running the other way. I turn on the back light and begin scrubbing everything down with baby wipes and Lysoling stuff (we keep Lysol in the car after the last time someone vomited on a road trip) and trying to contain it in the giant trash bag we thankfully had with us. Unfortunately this is all taking place while I am standing in only my t-shirt and a gray pair of panties, the inside light highlighting my rumbly, post-baby body in all its lumpy glory. Lovely.
So that's how our "break" started - with no real "break", although it did end with KitKats, because it was Easter, and tiny KitKats are exactly the right size to fit into a regular plastic Easter egg...just in case any of your Easter bunnies were wondering (and kids LOVE them. At least my kids do. Number One broke out into a spontaneous KitKat rap: "KitKat, KitKat. Everyone loves KitKat, KitKat," complete with breakdancing and everything). And although we no longer love McDonald's, we do love each other and that makes the trip and memories worthwhile....once the stench wears off.