Pump It Up, Puke it Up

We went to our first ever Pump It Up party yesterday. I am sure by the title of this entry that you can already see where this whole thing is going. First of all, I gave the receptionist the little waiver saying that I won't sue if my kids are maimed or killed. Not exactly a wave of confidence rushing over me already. Then we go into a room with four huge bouncies or jumpies or whatever you want to call them. Kids' paradise in a nutshell. So the kids had a fantastic time for the entire hour. Did you know the head of a four-year-old boy can get sweaty enough to look as though he snuck in the back and dunked his head in a toilet? Well, it turns out that it can.

So after the hour of jumping, the chaos comes to a stop, that is, until they then cram all 25 children into a room with four tables. Actually, I am lying, this part of the the party was surprisingly calm. EXCEPT that I would like to point out that BOTH of my children fell off the bench while eating their pizza (has anyone been to a kid's party where pizza is not served -- what's up with that?). In other words, they got through a whole hour of hurling their little bodies in completely unnatural ways at walls of inflatable plastic, but fell when they attempted to sit. And eat pizza.

So then the cake was served. I hate cake and hate frosting even more, so while other moms politely turn down their piece to save calories, I turn down mine because I don't want to vomit. But don't worry, for as promised, vomit will be had by the time I finish this story. Anyways, to sum up, I just had my children jump nonstop for an hour to really get their stomach acids nice and churned up, gave them pizza, watched them eat a nice big piece of cake, and now I am going to put them in my car to drive them the 30 minutes it will take us to get home. Hmmm, can't see what could possibly go wrong here.

Ten minutes into the drive I notice that Quinn is slumped over in his carseat more than a fastened seatbelt should allow. That would be because his seatbelt is, in fact, not fastened. Crap. I find an exit off the highway, quickly pull over, and buckle him up. Whooh, crisis averted. Smooth sailing now, right? Wrong. Then Henry begins complaining that his head hurts and starts crying that he needs water. I explained to him roughly twenty times that since there was no water in the car, he could not have water right now, but that I would be happy to get him a glass of water when we got home. I actually said it in a patient, calm voice all twenty times, though I don't know how. Maybe I was channeling the spirit of June Cleaver or something, because normally my voice gets progressively louder after about five times of having to repeat myself.

So there I am feeling like a fantastic mama when a noise that every parent knows and dreads erupts out of Henry. You know the one, the sound of a child gagging IN YOUR CAR!! So there it goes all over the floor. The smell nearly triggered a repeat performance from me. Poor little guy. Fortunately we were almost home, and Henry felt MUCH better already since the offending stomach acids had now exited his system. So we got home, I took the boys inside, and went to clean the van. And what did I find? Walnut vomit. Pizza? No. Cake? Not that I could see. Walnuts? Yes. Somebody please explain this to me.

Oh, and as of this morning, despite my 30 minute scrubbing marathon, the van still smells like vomit. So if anyone out there has any tips on how to get the smell of puke out of a car, send them my way. Quickly, please.