As promised, here’s the continuation of the cliff-hanging Part 1 of the Wisconsin Dells saga.
When we got to the Dells–much later than originally anticipated–our first stop was Buffalo Phil’s Grille. Our waiter was fantastic and very attentive to the fact that we had four hungry kids (well, actually, the kids weren’t all that hungry, since they’d been pigging out on gas station crud for the past four hours–but Mom and Dad were starving). He brought out little chalkboards for the kids to draw on right away and made sure our drinks arrived quickly and that our chips and salsa came right to the table. The kid’s menu actually had something–rotisserie chicken–that wasn’t breaded and fried or made with powdered cheese, which I always appreciate, as even kids grow tired of eating nothing but greasy, golden food for a whole weekend.
Jon and Jacob ordered the nightly special, the fish fry, which they declared very good. I got the fajitas, which were pretty so-so (meat was tough, veggies didn’t seem fresh). Owen and Isaac both got mac and cheese, which was, well, mac and cheese, and made them happy.
William didn’t even order, which I probably should have taken as a warning sign. He’s our human trash compactor, always happy to clear his own plate and the remnants of everyone else’s, too. And he’ll try anything. One of my favorite memories of Will is him at 2 1/2, gorging on spicy Indian food that was making everyone around him tear up. Instead, he just wanted to lay his head on my lap.
While we ate, we discussed what we’d do next. Go bowling? Play arcade games? It was pretty late by this point, but after several hours in the car, we figured the boys needed to burn off some energy. Buffalo Phil’s is attached to a place called Knucklehead’s , which is like a mini-carnival, arcade and bowling alley in one…basically, a kid’s paradise. As we were debating our plans, I felt a tugging at my sleeve.
Looking down, I saw Will’s crumpled face. “Mom, I feel sick,” he said. As mothers do, I immediately jumped into triage mode, trying to determine whether we were dealing with a mere tummy grumble or headache, or something more…acute. And potentially messy.
So of course, the first question out of my mouth was: “Are you going to throw up?”
He merely nodded in response. Unable to even form words? NOT a good sign. I threw my napkin on the table and started scooting out of the booth, but too late. A mighty heave later, my poor son was covered in his gas station fare (and I wasn’t faring too well myself).
The bathroom was in the arcade, too far away for me to make an easy dash, and I didn’t want to gross out the other diners any more than we already had. I couldn’t be sure if the people around us knew what was going on–the lighting was conveniently low, but William’s pre-hurl noises are legendary in our family for their volume and recognizability (kind of like a cat with a hairball in the middle of the night). Luckily, everyone around us had kids, so if they were staring, it was probably with looks of sympathy rather than disgust. But just as I thought I might be able to cover Will’s more soiled areas with a napkin and get him to the bathroom that way, he began making those dog-horking-on-a-chicken-bone sounds again, and I knew I was screwed. Before I knew it, another helping of oreos-twizzlers-root beer was fleeing his stomach.
Now we had a crisis on our hands. And while I’m calm in public health-related crises, Jon tends to be something more along the lines of useless. Bewildered and unsure of what to do, his reaction was to do absolutely nothing. He and the other kids, in fact, just kept on eating as though nothing had happened at all, only they raised their voices a little as though they could just talk right over the hurling and retching.
“Do you think you could help me out a little?” I hissed, mopping at Will’s poor face with a single paper napkin.
The look on Jon’s face was all the answer I needed. No. He could not. (To be fair, I think he may have handed me another napkin, and gave me a sympathetic look).
When we finally made it to the bathroom I assessed the damage. Will’s pants had escaped unscathed, but his shirt and hoodie were wayyy beyond a simple wipe-down. I took them off, having to be careful not to deposit the shirt’s contents on his face or head as I did, and turned the pukey jacket-and-shirt into a little inside-out package, kinda like a Popple. Then I gave William a head-to-toe soapy-paper-towel bath (thank goodness this was not one of those useless “air dryer only” establishments.) Fortunately, I was wearing a short-sleeve t-shirt over a long-sleeve t-shirt, so I gave Will my short-sleeve shirt and we went back out together with our barfy little Popple. A Bopple.
Getting back to the table, I found that the guys were still pigging out. “We gotta go,” I said, standing there with a kid wearing my t-shirt and his Bopple tucked under my arm.
“Oh, really?” Jon said.
Fortunately for him, I was too exhausted to hit him over the head with the chalkboard. Or worse, the Bopple.
The very-nice waiter was disappointed that we had to take off without dessert, and I can only hope I left him an adequate tip in my frazzled state. We made our way to the hotel, and let me tell you, it was heaven to find that our room was a huge suite with two bedrooms, a full kitchen, living area, and three televisions.
After all that family togetherness, I think we were all happy to spread out a little and zone out in groups of two.
Of course, after emptying his guts, Will was now absolutely fine, and it took me quite a while to calm him down and get him to sleep. Once I did, I zonked out. It had been a long, long day, and the trip hadn’t even really begun yet. It did get better from there on out–well, except for the bowling ball-meets-head incident–but I will have to save part 3 for another day.
