We may not be invited back to Chicago...

...or how I got my brother-in-law to detail my car. Again.

Were there more hours to squander in a work day, I could turn our trip to Chicago this past weekend into an epic. My sister calls it an extravaganza. I say we trashed her house. Between the high highs (my kid and her cousins racing down halls, laughing, laughing and then hopping into the bath together) and the low lows (see below), it's hard to know what to make of it. Let me just say I never have enough time to actually enjoy the city when I head home because after we've dispensed with all the stuff we have to do, the people we have to see (sister and nieces excluded--they're the best part), something always happens that consumes the time we have left.

This weekend that something was my daughter.

I'm going to skip over the details of the horrible wedding on Saturday which brought my dad and his wife to town, thus precipitating the command performance, even though skipping ahead deprives me the right to be snarky about the pissy bride, her lack of gratitude toward one whole side of her family and the worst timed wedding I have ever been to (seriously, music didn't start until 10:15, when we had already been there for 5 hours). Weddings can bring out the best in people, but more often I think they bring out the worst. In the end, it was good that they had insisted I not being Clementine (although anyone else with a toddler was certainly encouraged to bring them along) because having her there would have deprived me of the evening's one pleasure: the open bar. But didn't I say I was skipping ahead?

Since my mom was up to her eyeballs running the church rummage sale and couldn't make herself available on Mother's Day until the afternoon, we headed to the city in the morning to check in at the post-wedding brunch and then to see some sites and meet up with my wonderful poet friend Crystal. The last time we all hooked up with Crystal, my nieces were charming, funny and extroverted loves, and Clementine was a fussy crank who bitched the whole time we were together. This is how kids are, but I'm not sure Crystal knows that and, to be honest, it irks me that she talks all the time about how great my sister's kids are and how "challenging" and "independent" Clementine is. She doesn't say it like it's a good thing, and neither does my mom (but that's another story). So I was looking forward to Crystal spending some time with the Clementine I know: spunky, funny and truly sweet. Well, we all know what happens when a mom hopes for a certain outcome: Clementine was having nothing of it. She was tired. She was sick of strangers. She just wanted to go home and play with her own things. Even Crystal's gorgeous dog did little to keep her from burrowing into her dad's arms before insisting on booting Nora from her stroller so she could sit down.

And this is where the fun begins. I've been quiet on this subject because, although I know it's natural to explore one's body, it freaks me out a little: Clementine loves, loves, loves to have her hand in her girly parts whenever possible. Usually this is just during bath time, but now that we're into short and skirt weather, she's able to get her digits in the diaper much easier when in the car seat. I don't want to freak her out by saying it's yucky, scarring her and damaging her relationship to her own sexuality forever, but I have been trying to tell her "Not now," whenever I notice her doing it in public. This is what I thought was happening minutes after she claimed Nora's stroller, and I went over to ask that she wait until later to explore. But I had misread the situation entirely: she was actually pulling her diaper to the side so she could pee on Nora's stroller, marking her territory or accomplishing heaven knows what devious little plan. She laughed when she was done and I stood there realizing she was covered in pee and we didn't have a change of clothes with us. What the hell do we do?

So there, in front of the Chagall in the middle of the Loop, we stripped the little lass down to her Baby Legs, a diaper and a hoody we had borrowed from Abby and then quickly said our goodbyes to Crystal so we could head back to the burbs and my mother.

As we made our way out of the loop and onto the freeway, we got into a huge traffic jam, typical for Chicago these days. I guess every city dweller has a mama in the suburbs, and we were stuck with all of them trying to get out. Clementine started fussing but my niece Abby was in the backseat with her and doing her best to keep the girl calm. [Aside: it was surprisingly pleasant to travel with two kids in the car--they entertained one another and I loved the vibe. I'm not saying anything significant here, but it was the first time having another child didn't seem like the worst idea I've ever had]. And then it happened: I looked back at Clementine in time to watch her puke. "Holy shit!" I said and turned around quickly to watch her puke again, this time projectile and with a bubble of snot coming out her nose. By this time Nate had turned around in the passenger seat and was able to (or stupid enough to) catch the final round of vomit, and in the still, disgusted, silent aftermath Abby said "Wow. This time it is pink, and the last time she threw up it was red."

I should note that the only two times my daughter has thrown up in the car have been in Chicago. I would also like to note that both times have involved my stepmother's family, but I suppose I'm just grabbing at straws here. These are the funny moments of parenting I'll love to tell stories about one day. Nate in his one sports jacket, hand covered in pink puke and me with only three diaper wipes to my name. He used the pee-soaked dress to wash the puke off and managed to get her down to her diaper in the car seat as we inched along the freeway ramp and tried not to gag at the smell. Every once in a while Abby would crack us up, like when she said in her tiny voice reserved for talking with babies: "Don't worry Clementine, my daddy can get puke out of anything." Nate spent the rest of mother's day with a steam cleaner and my brother-in-law detailing the car while I tried to get the puke out of her clothes, off her Vans, off Lammie and Ana, her two pals, and out of blankie. And my mom eventually came over to drink beer (which she doesn't do often and can't really handle) and eat dinner. Clementine recovered quickly and was able to tear my sister's house to shreds with the help of her cousins. I think KC went to bed that night dreaming we were already gone. And that she had a maid. Or some kind of amazing insurance.

We thought after all the commotion it would be easy to get out of town, and we thought we were smart to stay and extra day so we could wind our way home slowly on Monday, stopping on the western side of the state to enjoy beaches and tulips. But of course it's never that easy. My mom had a thousand plans she didn't tell us about, which made the morning a minefield. We tried to squeeze everyone in but eventually tucked our tired girl in the car seat, said fuck it and drove home.

We've gotta get better about this road trip thing. Here's my sister's take.