A Unique Family Tradition

Well, it seems we’ve started a new Thanksgiving tradition. For the last two years, someone has thrown up on the ride home from Grandma and Grandpa’s. Last year  it was Reed and I who started the tradition. This year, Calvin kept it alive. When we were almost to our house, he told us his tummy hurt. This is fairly common, since all three of our boys get a little woozy on curvy roads, and there is no such thing as a straight road in our part of Missouri. Then he started crying. This is also fairly common, since all three of our boys can be slightly dramatic when they’re not happy. Then he burped. Once again, pretty common. The splash that followed was not. I had a bowl in hand (another road-trip standard--if we don’t get to the car with snacks in bowls, there will be a whine-fest), which I stealthily whipped around behind the seat and managed to keep level, though my arm was twisted in a very awkward position. He wasn’t through, but it didn’t help. He missed, sending the next round all over my hand and floorboard.  Round three made it to the bowl, though I don’t think it really mattered at this point.

Ryan pulled over and we did a makeshift clean up job before we headed for home, just five minutes away. Calvin was pretty upset with the puddle in his lap. I spoke in my calm, comforting mother voice, disguising the disgust over the smell of my hands, reassuring him that as soon as we got home we would get him all cleaned up and he could lay down and rest. “What!? But I wanna play!” was his response. We determined he must not be that sick. It must just be a bad combination of too much pumpkin pie and motion sickness.  The bath he took at home confirmed our suspicions. Homeboy tore up the bathroom, splashing like a whale for 15 minutes, all the while making his signature Calvin sound effects before I finally made him get out and get dressed.  I didn’t even try to make him lay down. Instead, I finished cleaning up the carnage. Turns out, it wasn’t too bad. See, we were driving the truck. After cross country season, the floor boards are buried in socks, papers, and the XC team’s lost-and-found collection (which, btw, I totally pilfer when they remain unclaimed). So, I just threw all the crap in the washing machine and threw away an unused package of cone cups, and that was pretty much it. I guess this year I can be thankful for Ryan’s disorganization and Ryan can be thankful that the new tradition helped him get out of cleaning the truck himself.