Hardy Thanksgiving Ride 2014 - AKA The Hell Ride

Some stories go down in family history; and some go down in family infamy.

The ride out to Morgantown, West Virginia in November of 2014 falls into the latter camp.

Everything was plotted out and made ready the day before. We borrowed a car seat. I (Marcus) confirmed the rental car registration. I stayed late to make sure I could leave at 1:00 p.m. sharp the next day to go pick up the card and get us going.

And everything went well - at first.

Our phone GPS got us down to Brooklyn and then over into Manhattan. Despite considerably increased blood pressure due to the stress of driving in the city, we made it through and to the tunnel into New Jersey without incident.

When we got about three-quarters of the way through the tunnel, we realize that in our rush to leave (which involved much four-letter-wording of the borrowed car seat from me as I tried to install it in slushy / icy conditions), we had forgotten Chase's Pack-and-Play bed.

So no bed for our baby. How Christmasy.

We breathed a sigh of relieve and moved on with the trip: next stop, dinner.

A satisfying option just wouldn't present itself. I was determined to not eat a a McDonald's. But exit after exit, that was all that would present itself. Mickey-D's. The Golden Arches. Over and over again.

Finally, at Erica's urging and Chase's need, we stopped off and got some dinner. And it was alright...we gassed up the Focus and moved on.

For about 10 minutes. I heard Chase making strange noises in the back seat and turned around to help him. And then it came.

The vomit. The hot, steaming french-fry-and-nugget infused spew. Everywhere. On my hands. In the hamburger holder I grabbed and held in front of him. Then to the brim of it. Then everywhere else. My hands. The car seat. The car.

Oh...expletive.

The poor kid. I was shocked and maybe a bit scared at this happening on our first car trip. He starts to whimper. I try to be nice...it's hard. I'm covered in puke. Just to be perfectly clear, I love him completely.

Enough to get out of the car on the side of the freeway, in the snow, to help him out of his seat. And when we determined that the only spare clothes are in the trunk in the suitcase, I move to get that. 

Watch for semi trucks!

Crap...it's zipped at the bottom...will have to pull it out. Which means pulling other stuff out. Oh look. Another semi! This is kind of scary.

Better take the suitcase up to the front of the car to avoid being hit.

Man, this is really scary. Where are the PJs...there they are.

Okay - cleaned up the puke as best we could (you're a champ Erica), boy in clean clothing and new diaper. Puke filled burger holder littered on side of the road...

Dang it I stepped in it. Thank you for being there for my shoes and hands, on snow.

Okay. Kid clean. Carseat at car...sort of clean. Off we go.

And things were pretty uneventful from that point on. Until we followed Google's lead onto a little road called "Route 9" and wound up in the boondocks of West Virginia with no signal and no way to find our destination.

But thanks to a nice woman at a gas station, and occasional contact with Erica's friend Amy, who we were going to visit, we made it by about 1:00 a.m. - 12 hours after the adventure kicked off.

And after washing the car seat by hand once and in a machine twice. And spending a few days cleaning the car and detailing the car seat a few more times - we wound up having a pretty great time!