When we pulled up to the motel in Phoenix Arizona in late December 2004 and saw that it was a run-down version of its online pictures, we should have taken it as a sign and turned the car around to make the 12 hour drive back to Salt Lake. But we didn’t. We had made the trip caravanning with Alison and Bryant’s family and were planning to ring in the new year cheering for the Utes in the Fiesta Bowl and enjoying the Phoenix sun.
We checked in to our rooms and found that they matched the exterior—gross and not worth what we prepaid to stay there and certainly unworthy of the three stars granted to it from Priceline. In fact, we even called Priceline to complain and to ask them if we could be moved to an actual three star motel. They gladly took our complaint and kindly told us that there was nothing they would do about it other than investigate whether or not the motel deserved the rating in the future.
Oh well. Whatcha gonna do?
I awoke that night to the horrifying sound of then-baby Max throwing up in his rickety motel crib. And I cringed, because if there was one thing I knew about this baby already, it was that once he started puking, he didn’t stop for eight days. Not even a week was enough for him.
Of course, I began freaking out. It’s one thing to take care of your sick and puking baby at home with your washing machine, medicine cabinet, and kitchen; it’s another thing entirely to do it at a crappy motel in Phoenix. I needed to get home. But as soon as I started imagining a puke-filled 12 hour drive home, I practically broke out in hives.
I felt so bad for Max. I felt so bad for me.
Then, I came up with an idea. I would fly home with Max. It took a little bit to convince Ryan that this was the only way to handle the situation, both for Max’s sake and for the sake of everybody else who had been planning to attend the game and all of the festivities. Max and I were real kill-joys at this point.
So, within a few hours, a one-way ticket to Salt Lake was purchased on our credit card and Bryant, Alison, and Ryan drove me and Max to the airport. I had nothing with me except for a diaper bag and my wallet—I couldn’t mess with luggage or even a purse. I didn’t even bring his baby seat. Inside the diaper bag, I carried two stolen hand-towels from the motel room—my best attempt at a tool to catch his inevitable spew.
The drive to the airport put Max to sleep, his first real sleep in several long hours. In fact, he stayed asleep the entire time it took to get me to the ticket counter, and through the long line to security. If it all played out, I’d have just enough time to make my flight.
But remember that this was a post-9/11 world and little did I know that my one-way ticket to Salt Lake earned me a special place in the Advanced Placement Security Line, the place where they send suspected terrorists and other randomly picked passengers (to keep things fair). I learned after the fact that one-way tickets are automatic red-flags in the security world because suicide bombers are cheap and therefore never purchase the unnecessary round-trip ticket.
So I found myself in this incredibly slow and thorough security line behind the other suspicious travelers—a lady in a wheelchair and a guy with long reddish hair who was wearing all black. When I took my place in line—still trying to figure out why in the world I was unlucky enough to be randomly picked for this and why my life had suddenly taken such a sour turn for the worst—the guy with the reddish hair turned to see disheveled me with my sleeping baby and said, “Oh yeah, like you’re a terrorist.”
When it was finally my turn to be inspected, the unfriendly agent told me that I’d have to set my baby down so that I could be pat down. I looked at her in disbelief. And though I am always friendly and compliant with my government, I said no.
She told me to set him down again. Again I said no.
“My baby is sick and finally asleep. I don’t even have a baby carrier to set him in. I’m not going to lay him on the floor.”
We were at a standstill, TSA agent and me. She turned her head to call for backup and the guy with the reddish hair, who’d just been deemed safe stepped back to say, “How about I hold the baby while you check her?”
Three TSA agents debated this idea for five minutes before deciding that, yes, it would probably be okay for someone to hold the sick baby while the mama was checked for explosives.
Guy with the reddish hair, wherever you are, thank you.
By the time I finally got to my gate, after practically going to second base with the female TSA agent who patted me down, Max was awake, had puked on me once, and my plane was announcing the final boarding call.
As I look back now, I can see that I probably ended up in the right security line after all. As I walked down the aisle to my seat, speckled in vomit with a green baby, there were definitely looks of terror on the faces of my fellow passengers.
I found my place, put the diaper bag under the seat, and held Max and the stolen motel towels in my hands. And from that moment until I walked off the plane, my fellow passengers pretended that I did not exist. Max puked twice during the flight. I caught most of it with the towels and my pants. Nobody said anything. Nor did I.
When I walked off the plane into the busy airport, I had forgotten that it was New Years Eve. Everyone looked happy and celebratory. Ryan had made arrangements for my brother-in-law Dave to pick us up, and if it wouldn’t have upset Max more, I would have run all the way to the waiting car; I was so happy to be getting home.
Halfway through the busy corridor, Max exploded again. I was distracted by my excitement, and therefore didn’t take time to assume emergency position. The puke went all. over. me. I remember that I was wearing a green sweatshirt and jeans, but standing in that busy hallway, you wouldn’t have been able to tell the original color of anything I was wearing. I was brown and chunky.
A lady with a kind face, toting a handful of her own children, was walking the opposite direction and saw the entire event. She rushed over to help, pulling wet wipes and napkins out of her purse. I put out a hand to stop her.
“It’s okay,” I said, “don’t come any closer. I’m covered in puke, but I’m a half-hour from home. Don’t contaminate yourself. You look like you’re headed somewhere. I swear I’m okay.”
Once she believed me, she headed off her way and I went mine.
Lady with all the kids, wherever you are, thank you.
Within minutes, I was sitting in the back of Dave and Andrea’s van. Dave drove me home and didn’t even seem to mind that I was ruining his upholstery and that the very smell of us was causing him to weep. I can say without equivocation (a five-syllable word there!) that I have NEVER been happier to be in my own home.
Sadly, the story doesn’t end there. Minutes within Ryan returning back to the motel after the Fiesta Bowl, Christian complained that his stomach hurt. Within a few hours, his own pukefest began. Ryan spent all night cleaning up Christian and calling housekeeping for more sheets and towels. And, if memory serves me right, the coffeepot got shattered at some point during this time.
Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, before sunrise, having had no sleep during the all-night vomit parade, Ryan decided to hit the road. The yearning for home had reached him as well and he’d had enough of playing nurse in the gross motel.
He loaded green Christian and all of our luggage in the car and got behind the wheel to head home. Right before he checked out, he realized that he had no plan for containing puke in the car. He ran back into the room and stole one final item—the ice bucket. They made it home in record time.
We survived. Eight days, thirty-six loads of laundry, and two carpet cleanings later, we made our way back to normal.
And the moral of the story? I think it’s quite clear: Beware of becoming a tool in Karma’s hands when she is punishing a motel for misrepresenting themselves to online reservation companies.
