Lynne's Lens
Bowl Sign - Nightmare in Missouri
I wish I could have gotten a better photo of this great sign, but it was not to be. I don't even remember where it is -- some town between Branson and OKC.
We were driving home from a great weekend skiing at Table Rock Lake, going to Silver Dollar City, and exploring area caves when my older son, Jack, aged six, decides that he's feeling a bit queazy -- just a few miles into our journey from Branson. So, we stop to let his stomach settle a bit and take some medicine to pass him out -- always the best remedy when we're in a car for a long time and he's not feeling well.
After a few minutes, Jack says he's better and we're back on the road -- a windy country road with miles between stops and an ever-darkening, forboding sky accompanying us. Can you tell that pretty things are not about to happen?
We're driving along and after a few minutes of complete silence from Jack (something that NEVER happens with my chatterbox son), I hear my younger son, Will (aged four), scream the words I've been dreading for the last 30 minutes, "Jack's getting sick all over himself!" "EEWWWW!!!," Will is hollering in disgust; Jack is white-faced and hurling his breakfast (pancakes and sausage) all over his lap; my husband starts retching at the smell of it all; and at that exact moment, the sky finally opens and sheets of rain begin to pour.
Lovely.
Chuck pulls the car over to the narrow shoulder because there is no place to stop for miles, and we brave the downpour to help Jack, who is now crying as hard as he was throwing up a minute ago. We strip the poor lad down to his underwear and try to clean up the mess as much as we can until we hit the next town, a whopping 20 miles away.
Back on the road, the stink in the car is so overwhelming that we brave the pelting rain and roll down all of the windows so that we won't be overcome by the fumes. We drive like this until we arrive at the next town and, thank God, find hose at a gas station that we can use to rinse everything, including a nearly naked and now-shivering Jack. We buy some trash bags in which to dump rinsed but still smelly clothing, floor mats, towels, etc., then we're on our way again.
Back on the road -- and only one hour into our long, six-hour journey -- we think that all is well until I look back at Jack and see an ashen face that matches the gray and gloomy sky. Oh no! Not again....
Sure enough, he didn't get all of his breakfast out the first time and proceeds to projectile vomit all over himself and the floor, devoid of floor mats this time. Will thinks it's a joke this time and starts hysterically laughing, but Jack looks like he's going to die right there on that lonely country road out in the middle of nowhere in the pouring rain.
Jack (looking like he's gasping his last breath, he's so gray now): "U-u-g-h-h!"
Chuck (stopping the car as fast as he can on a wet road -- luckily, there is no one else around to run into): "Damnit! Stick your head out the window, Jack. The car. We just got it cleaned up! *&%#! #%#@!"
Me (calming my sick child, or my husband -- I can't tell which.): "It's okay, baby. You're okay. Everything will be fine."
Will (now trying to calm everyone, including himself -- or just traumatized by it all and going off into his own world): "You know, Jaws is just a big fish, that's all. Just a big fish. Nothing to be scared of." (He has just gone through an obsession with sharks and is terrified of them.)
We've used all of our towels and supplies cleaning up the first wave of sick, and we have nothing left to clean this doozie of a mess but the clothing we wore over the weekend. So, we pile through our suitcases looking for something absorbant and find a few shirts and a skirt we can use to wipe up the floor, door, seat, carseat, and Jack himself. After 10 minutes of erasing up every last bit of gunk and putting Jack in his last clean pair of underwear, we pile back in the car, give Jack an old cup to hold in case he needs to barf again, and are once again on our way.
At the next town -- 30 miles down the rainy road this time -- we luck out and find a car wash, scrub everything down one more time, find Jack a bigger cup in case he needs it (he does), and try it all again.
Somewhere along the way on this nightmare journey, I miraculously had the presense of mind to spot this great sign and snap it. I wish I could have stopped and taken a better photo of it, but by this time, I just wanted to hurry and get home and into a fresh-smelling environment.
If anyone has any idea of where this sign is located, I'd be interested to know.
Bowl Sign - Nightmare in Missouri
I wish I could have gotten a better photo of this great sign, but it was not to be. I don't even remember where it is -- some town between Branson and OKC.
We were driving home from a great weekend skiing at Table Rock Lake, going to Silver Dollar City, and exploring area caves when my older son, Jack, aged six, decides that he's feeling a bit queazy -- just a few miles into our journey from Branson. So, we stop to let his stomach settle a bit and take some medicine to pass him out -- always the best remedy when we're in a car for a long time and he's not feeling well.
After a few minutes, Jack says he's better and we're back on the road -- a windy country road with miles between stops and an ever-darkening, forboding sky accompanying us. Can you tell that pretty things are not about to happen?
We're driving along and after a few minutes of complete silence from Jack (something that NEVER happens with my chatterbox son), I hear my younger son, Will (aged four), scream the words I've been dreading for the last 30 minutes, "Jack's getting sick all over himself!" "EEWWWW!!!," Will is hollering in disgust; Jack is white-faced and hurling his breakfast (pancakes and sausage) all over his lap; my husband starts retching at the smell of it all; and at that exact moment, the sky finally opens and sheets of rain begin to pour.
Lovely.
Chuck pulls the car over to the narrow shoulder because there is no place to stop for miles, and we brave the downpour to help Jack, who is now crying as hard as he was throwing up a minute ago. We strip the poor lad down to his underwear and try to clean up the mess as much as we can until we hit the next town, a whopping 20 miles away.
Back on the road, the stink in the car is so overwhelming that we brave the pelting rain and roll down all of the windows so that we won't be overcome by the fumes. We drive like this until we arrive at the next town and, thank God, find hose at a gas station that we can use to rinse everything, including a nearly naked and now-shivering Jack. We buy some trash bags in which to dump rinsed but still smelly clothing, floor mats, towels, etc., then we're on our way again.
Back on the road -- and only one hour into our long, six-hour journey -- we think that all is well until I look back at Jack and see an ashen face that matches the gray and gloomy sky. Oh no! Not again....
Sure enough, he didn't get all of his breakfast out the first time and proceeds to projectile vomit all over himself and the floor, devoid of floor mats this time. Will thinks it's a joke this time and starts hysterically laughing, but Jack looks like he's going to die right there on that lonely country road out in the middle of nowhere in the pouring rain.
Jack (looking like he's gasping his last breath, he's so gray now): "U-u-g-h-h!"
Chuck (stopping the car as fast as he can on a wet road -- luckily, there is no one else around to run into): "Damnit! Stick your head out the window, Jack. The car. We just got it cleaned up! *&%#! #%#@!"
Me (calming my sick child, or my husband -- I can't tell which.): "It's okay, baby. You're okay. Everything will be fine."
Will (now trying to calm everyone, including himself -- or just traumatized by it all and going off into his own world): "You know, Jaws is just a big fish, that's all. Just a big fish. Nothing to be scared of." (He has just gone through an obsession with sharks and is terrified of them.)
We've used all of our towels and supplies cleaning up the first wave of sick, and we have nothing left to clean this doozie of a mess but the clothing we wore over the weekend. So, we pile through our suitcases looking for something absorbant and find a few shirts and a skirt we can use to wipe up the floor, door, seat, carseat, and Jack himself. After 10 minutes of erasing up every last bit of gunk and putting Jack in his last clean pair of underwear, we pile back in the car, give Jack an old cup to hold in case he needs to barf again, and are once again on our way.
At the next town -- 30 miles down the rainy road this time -- we luck out and find a car wash, scrub everything down one more time, find Jack a bigger cup in case he needs it (he does), and try it all again.
Somewhere along the way on this nightmare journey, I miraculously had the presense of mind to spot this great sign and snap it. I wish I could have stopped and taken a better photo of it, but by this time, I just wanted to hurry and get home and into a fresh-smelling environment.
If anyone has any idea of where this sign is located, I'd be interested to know.