So what, if this one started out smelling like rotten feet and kitty litter. I didn't think it could ever be worse than the time we were driving to Philly and got stuck on one of the New York bridges and Tom, then four had to go to the bathroom. We were bumper to bumper with no relief in sight. When he said it was an emergency, I offered him my coffee cup. "Um, I think that would ruin your coffee, Mom." A half hour later when he could barely speak from the pain in his bladder, he asked for the coffee cup. He jumped out of his car seat and in his hurry to relieve himself, failed to pulled his pants far enough down. He missed the cup and pee shot all over the interior of the car, spraying the windows, seats and windshield, but mostly the driver. A wild Crazy Daisy of urine.
I've lowered my expectations; seven hours in a traveling petri dish, four kids and a cat, I wasn't expecting an olfactory delight. We were packed, only a half hour behind schedule with seven hours to go. Having learned my lesson, I checked, doubled checked and marched everyone to the bathroom. All systems go. Generally, we travel with our 110 pound Rhodesian Ridgeback, easy to leash if we think he needs a bathroom break. On this trip, Angus secured himself another ride and we were left with our delicate feline, Missymoo. We planned to leave her in her carrying case but her incessant howling made it impossible to hear the radio and the kids begged to let her out. She circled the car and I thought she just needed a minute to settle her self. After ten minutes, I realized my fatal mistake. We sped along the Mass Pike at 70 mph, no rest areas insight, I had no other choice. I pulled my Suburban onto the shoulder, hoping to pull the kitty litter box out of the back. Before I could, there was no mistaking the smell. No Crazy Daisy, just a good old fashion pile of cat poop on the floor between the back and third seat. To add insult to injury, she went right on Tom's headphones. As everyone screamed and Claire gagged, I found a plastic bag and scooped it up, but what to do with it? Even on my worst day, I'm not a litterbug, so I tied up the bag and secured it to the back wiper.
I'm sure it puzzled other drivers as it flapped against my bumper sticker that reads, "Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History." Vomit is in the job description, but clearly, the gods mock me. Only six hours to go.