Riding in a car with a child.

So there I was, holding a sealed container in the front passenger seat of our car, as my wife drove the last leg of our journey home. Supporting the bottom of the thin plastic container with both hands, I could feel the warm contents gently sloshing about to the rhythm of the highway. Just moments before, my daughter had gotten sick in the car, the second time she had such a bout of illness on this trip. My wife was frustrated, but I was just peachy. Why? Let me take you back one week. We were driving to New Orleans to visit my sister. We had just left when my daughter started coughing. I asked my daughter if she was o.k. and she said she was. But then she started gagging. I lunged for the plastic container we brought along, in the even that such a contingency should occur, and handed it to my daughter. She coughed a gagged for a few seconds before declaring that she was feeling o.k. She held out the container for me in her outstretched hands, and then proceeded to throw up between the newly created void between her arms and into her lap.

Dear mother of all that is holy, what was she thinking?

This is how I came to be happy about holding a warm, sealed container of car sickness in my hands on the final leg of our drive home from New Orleans.