Two thirds of my children are prone to car sickness. This they did not inherit from me, as I spent the better part of my youth traveling the states via 1966 Buick, mostly from Ohio to Texas, to and fro, and then back again. This was our yearly summer trip to see my beloved grandparents. My brother and I rode in the back seat, sans seat belts, so we were often vying for the coveted spot atop the back seats, on a narrow ledge. The only thing keeping us from flying out the back onto the pavement was a 1/4 ” piece of glass.
Our Siamese cat, Tinkerbell, accompanied us on all road trips with the family. It should be noted that Tinkerbell’s trusty sandbox also shared the backseat with the siblings.
Every single family vacation, which spanned Niagra Falls to Mexico, was spent in that Buick. Never once did we toss our cookies. Not even the cat.
I can only surmise that the car sick has been inherited from Fiddledaddy’s side of the gene pool.
Yesterday I carted my girls to their A.H.G. scouting meeting with Jensen in tow. Jensen and Cailey will often argue over who is the most car sick. The one who actually blows chunks generally wins the argument. During this particular trip, Jensen did the most complaining. And then on the way home, without his older sister to commiserate with, he whined to me ALL THE WAY HOME that he felt car sick. SO CAR SICK. Like talking about it ad nauseum will help.
This is not an unusual occurrence, and I’m usually able to tune him out if I start humming in my head loud enough. Because that’s the kind of stellar mother that I am. In my defense, I opened his window and handed him the retractable waste paper basket that we keep in the car, with clear instructions to AIM. An area in which he is generally NOT GIFTED, as my bathroom floors will attest.
But I digress.
We made it home without incident, as we usually do. So when Jensen realized that he was going to get no sympathy from his mother, he turned his moans and groans to his father, who is generally more nurturing about this sort of thing.
Rightfully so. Since the fault is likely his that I gave birth to sea sick offspring.
Fiddledaddy took note of Jensen’s pale face and beige-ish lips (something I had failed to notice). And by this point the boy was crying in agony clutching his stomach, falling to the floor, refusing to move.
After quickly assessing that the pain was in the middle, and not indicative of appendicitis, I began backing away from the patient, circling the perimeter of the kitchen. I did fetch the throw up pan from the bathroom, because I feared that vomit was eminent.
I’ve stated on many many occasions that I don’t handle vomit with any kind of diplomacy. Fiddledaddy often has to bar the exits to keep me from fleeing. He doesn’t understand that I’m really doing everyone a favor by removing myself from the situation. For if I even suspect that vomit is at bay, I’m only going to add to the mess.
I’m not proud of this. But at least I do know my limitations.
Fiddledaddy kept giving me instructions and little jobs to keep me in the moment. I fetched cold compresses at lightning quick speed, and offered words of encouragement.
From across the room.
All while this was occurring, Fiddledaddy kept feeding the kid yogurt with a probiotic included. Which I thought was insanity. I still have yogurt stains on my CEILING from early 2003 when such was tried before.
During a moment of divine inspiration, Fiddledaddy hoisted the 60 something pound kid onto his shoulder and began patting his back, just like when he was a baby. A dangerous position to place yourself in, in my estimation, but worthy of my gratitude, as the kid was now facing the other direction.
Finally my child let out the biggest belch known to boy-kind. I held my breath, waiting to revisit the yogurt plus various Valentine’s treats and such. None were forthcoming. Disaster averted. And with that, the child promptly began bouncing off of the walls, in usual Jensen fashion.
Motherhood. It is not for the weak. And perhaps best left up to Fiddledaddy.