"I'd rather be in a room with 3-Maggie farts . . ."

I have dubbed it "one of the most ill-fated Thanksgiving road trips in American history ".

That's how this sad tale begins.

When it's all said and done, you may wonder just as I have been, if God is sending me a message: "Thou shall stay closer to thy home."

It all started the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Since Super Nova Baby Tova's birth, TG has been my favorite holiday. I was thrilled to be taking 8-days off of work and was looking forward to the drive from SoCal to Austin. Singing rounds! Playing the alphabet game! Drinking pop and eating Cool Ranch Doritos! What could be better than 21-hours of family togetherness in our brand new 2007 minivan?

Huh?! My friends, what could be better?

Well, we left the house 3-hours later than expected. No biggie, cause you can drive 80-MPH once you get out there in the desert.

3-hours into our road trip and only just past Yuma, Baby Tova Margie said, "my tummy hurts." We took her chips away from her, had her take a sip of water and that was that. Moments later, she said it again and then . . . hork. Barf down her face and car seat and legs and so on. A couple more barfs, now with me in the back seat cupping my hands beneath her mouth. We were finally able to stop at a rest stop that had no facilities. We did our best to wipe the muck away from Tova's seat and body, changed her clothes. We diagnosed her with car sickness, hopped back in the van and turned off the little t.v. we brought along to entertain the kids.

Shoulda turned around. Mark my words, we shoulda turned around.

Tova proceeded to vomit all the way to Tuscon, which normally is a few hours from Yuma but in our case was many hours due to frequent stops for fresh air and emesis evacuation. By this time, of course, Soren was in the way back complaining of a tummy ache. We pulled into Tuscon, only 5-hours from our home, with me straddling the seats holding a cupped hand under Tova and a plastic bag up to Soren's mouth. And as we did, in reference to the bile-ish vomit smell that had overtaken our new car, Petra exclaimed, "I'd rather be stuck in a room with 3-Maggie farts than this." Lars and I heartily agreed.

We passed many horrified guests in the lobby of the Holiday Inn as we tried to discretely rush past them to our dinky room for the night. Holiday Inn was kind enough to lend us their laundry so I machine washed the car seat covers while Lars hosed them out in the parking lot. We scrubbed Tova clean and did our best to catch vomit from Soren and Tova as they barfed their way into Monday. While my favorite son has the wherewithal to aim and place his vomit in sinks and toilets and trash cans, Tova does not. Her puke hit the beds, the floors, the walls, the chairs. It was a full-on revival of Airplane.

The next morning by 6 am both of the pukers were stable and no one else was complaining. We called Per and Kathy, consulted with them, did they want us to still come? If not, we were only 5-hours from home and it would be no thang at all to just turn around. "Come!" they urged. So we forged on, only 5-hours into our trip, it would make for a long day.

Feverish, but not nauseous, we got Soren and Tova comfortable in the middle row and sent the girls to the back for safe keeping and sister-time. We angled our way to two lane country highways in the middle of Texas, crossing paths with deer, jack rabbits, armadillos and big black things that looked suspiciously like hairy hippos (it was dark, the mind plays tricks on you).

Blessedly, at 2 a.m. on Tuesday morning, we made it to Austin, to the home of my brother- and sister-in-law. 15-minutes after settling into bed, Petra appeared at my bedside. It wasn't good.

Pattyboomers and I rushed to the bathroom. I held back her hair, while she puked in the sink. As I was shoving her emesis down the drain with my bare hands, Lars poked his head into the bathroom . . . and just in the nick of time. With one fist wrapped around Petra's hair as she continued to launch her cookies into the sink, he had his right hand wrapped around my hair as I upchucked into the toilet. Over and over again, Petra and I went and after each session I cleaned up with bleach because Lars does NOT do puke. This is how our night went.

By late afternoon, we were well enough to endure laying on the couch, cradling ginger ale. The next day we all managed to eat a little. By Thanksgiving, Per and Kathy's middle child was hugging the porcelain, too.

Tarnation! We had brought the plague 1/2-way across the country and infected the innocents.

Then Soren was bit by a spider and his leg swelled up to the size of my big ol'butt and he couldn't walk.

Friday I was well enough to borrow their neighbor's steam cleaner. I cleaned out our car, Lysol'ed the car seats and all the hard surfaces.

Saturday it was time to head back home. We wearily piled in the car (except Soren, who limped/staggered), each of us 3-lbs lighter than before and started off.

Now Tova, that Tova girl of ours, well she can be a handful at times. As we were rolling through the countryside, Tova quietly and timidly mentioned that she had a boogie. I handed that squishy bunned baby a tissue and focused on the map. "Mommy," she whispered, "owie boogie."

I turned around. It seemed the crayons and coloring books that I had handed back to my beauties had inspired Tova to be artistic in non-traditional ways. With an orange crayon dangling from her right nostril, Tova had tried to entertain herself rather questionably. She quickly removed the crayon, smiled at me, but I could see the tip was not on the crayon.

Rather, the tip of the crayon was stuck way the heck up her nose. Try as we did, that tip would not budge. It was causing her pain, not to mention distorting her face with a distinct bulge up in the bony part near her eye. Seriously.

Ohhhh man oh man. We followed Lars' iPhone instructions to the nearest ER, checked Tova in, and then sat down next to a decrepit cowboy. The staff was sweet and kind, which was good, because Petra was having a holy conniption feeling all sorts of guilt for having handed Tova the big kid crayon and not the fat baby crayon. As the nurse was fixin' to prepare us for a removal of a foreign object from the nasal cavity, Tova sneezed. And then again. And again! And I'll be damned if that little orange tip didn't wiggle it's way down. We all sat, holding our breaths as Lars gently stroked Tovey's nose until POP! Out it came! Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. And amen. We high-tailed it back to the van and sped off westward.

The next day was Sunday, November 28th. Of course it was Tova's birthday, but we were still on the road so we didn't tell her. Didn't want to get too crazy with our celebrating and then have karma come and chew our arms off for being too jubillant.

Finally, home to the crisp, dry plot that holds our crumbling, termite infested house with a loving and farty Bassett Hound there to welcome us back. Ahhhh, no place like home.