In all fairness to my stomach, there was plenty of precedent to support such an over reaction. If we were lucky enough on these extended roller coaster rides to make it all the way to point B without anyone vomiting or pooping out of their pants, then there was the inevitable last third of the trip listening to the screaming and crying of people sick of their car seats and with nothing left to lose. Even recalling the memories makes me battle weary.
As you can imagine, when Monte suggested in June that we take a car trip vacation to Houston and San Antonio, I looked at him like he had lost his flipping mind. "We have children," I said, as if he had suggested we run to the local multiplex for an R-rated movie.
Those of you who know Monte, however, know that nine times out of ten given enough time to present a persuasive argument and gift me with several surprise iced tea lemonades from Starbucks, he will get his way. And so it was, that I found myself early this morning packing the car full of luggage and supplies for a dreaded car trip to Houston. Wet wipes? Check. Paper towels? Check. Snacks? Drinks? Antacids? Check. IPad, iPhones, PSPs? Check. Steel iron maternal will? Maybe we can get some on the way.
But we've been on the road now for five hours, and a strange and magical thing is happening. At the risk of jinxing myself, I can report no one in our van is fighting. No one is crying. No one is vomiting or pooping inappropriately. The only sounds are satellite radio Big 80s on 8 and quiet chatter about game scores. If it were December I'd call it a Christmas miracle, but since we're in the middle of a massive summer heat wave, I guess I will have to settle for calling it a regular miracle.
I know my children are getting older, and that car trips would eventually be pleasant again. It's just nice that someday decided to show up a little ahead of schedule.
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