Diary of an Angry Pink Baby #7: End of Roadtrip

Nobody asked James if he wanted to go on a two-and-a-half-week road trip, which is probably for the best because if he were asked, the answer unambiguously would have been "no." Since the only words James knows are "mamamamamamama" and "ohohohohoh" (as sung to the New Kids on the Block's "The Right Stuff"), he responded to this unasked question in the method he knows best: puking all over everything in the car.

But we made it a long time before we reached this point! More specifically, we made it to the drive from Kentucky to Cincinnati. James had already been to several hundred states and probably a few planets by then, so we can't hold it against him. He even gave us a warning, which led to my pulling off the highway in search of the Golden Arches. (Based on this trip, my wife could write another blog titled "McDonalds We Disgraced," though I don't know what kind of readership she should expect.) Before anyone so much as lowered a Koala Kare, however, we had the following exchange:

Her: Don't stop. I just want to get there.
Me: Are you sure?
Her: Yes.
Me: Are you positive?
Her: Go!
Me: Okay, but--
James: (vomits on himself, my wife, the carseat, the backseat, all of the windows, the ceiling, the notion of future road trips, my wife's sanity, my ability to form words) MAMAMAMAMAMAMA

At this point, we had two hours to go. We would have considered getting a hotel or sleeping under the highway, but Jason had acquired excellent seats to the Reds game. Unfortunately, I can't relay any more information about getting to Cincinnati because I had it permanently erased from my memory. Sorry!

James's expression conveys his feelings on this matter

The next 48 hours were fun and only a little pukey. Then we had the twelve-hour drive from Cincinnati to Long Island.

James was REALLY finished by this point. He went to sleep in the car early but he made no promises. When I pulled over to get gas, he woke up and never went back to sleep. As in, he's awake now, staring at me with a look that says, You did this to me. Look, I didn't mean to, James. I just wanted to expose you to experiences that have no chance of registering in your long-term memory. Does that make me a bad father? (James's tired look confirms that it does.)

Need I say that we did not make it home? We stopped at a Super 8 hotel where the following things happened: (1) I transported two-hundred pounds of luggage into the room, (2) James didn't fall asleep for ninety minutes, (3) James woke up four hours after he kind of fell asleep, (4) We all drove half a mile to Dunkin' Donuts, where James commenced crying and there was no coffee large enough. The last five hours included two diners and James basically giving up as we drove over the George Washington Bridge into New York. In unrelated news, he was sick for five days.