Saint Patrick’s Day is over, but I still have it on my mind.
Years ago, on Saint Patrick’s Day, it was Spring Break, and my husband and older son were going on a trip.
We had to drive to the airport for an early morning flight.
The younger son wanted to stay home and sleep.
However, he wasn’t old enough to stay home alone for the length of time I would be gone.
I assured him that he could roll into the car in his pajamas, sleep on the drive, and roll back to bed when we got home.
He complained and complained and complained and complained and complained.
This was unusual, because he was usually a very cheerful and pleasant child.
His griping was getting on everyone’s nerves, and the whole family was cranky and snappish.
As we were driving down the freeway, I turned to the back seat to tell him to pipe down, and to perhaps throw out a few random threats that I probably wouldn’t carry out, when I saw his face.
“Pull over,” I told Bob urgently, “He’s going to be sick.”
“No, he’s not,” Bob snarled back, “He’s just whining.”
Sure enough, just a few minutes later, the kid got carsick.
Violently carsick.
Moms know.
We had to pull over in a gas station to clean up as best as we could.
I didn’t say a word for the rest of the ride.
Neither did the kid, who now felt much better, and had cheerfully stopped his complaining.
However, after we dropped off the other two, I had a few questions for him.
“How many cupcakes did you eat at your Saint Patrick’s Day party at school yesterday?” I asked.
“The teacher said we could each have one,” he replied angelically.
“Yeah, but how many did you sneak after that?”
He looked at me sheepishly.
“How did you know?” he asked meekly.
“Moms know everything,” I told him.
Also, his vomit was green.
We spent that Saint Patrick’s Day steam cleaning the car.
From that point forward, Bob always pulled over when I asked.
