Once a year, there are certain rites of passage that every Virginia family must endure. In spring, it’s cherry blossoms in D.C. where you spend three hours in traffic on I-95, four hours finding parking and two hours waiting in line for 10 minutes of “look, flowers!” In summer, it’s beach traffic where your odometer reads “stuck in tunnel…” and then laughs maniacal in squeals of overheating! But in fall, it’s apple-picking. You load everyone in the van and head for the mountains, because nothing screams picturesque family bonding like paying to pick fruit that costs less at Walmart.
And yet, we do it. Why? Because fall in Virginia is magical. The air is crisp but not yet biting, the mountains are painted in fiery reds and golds, and every fruit stand along the way looks like a Hallmark moment.
I had us on the perfect plan: a drive through the mountains, windows cracked just enough for that sweet autumn air, but to keep out the last of the summer mosquitoes. Enjoy the drive, and then straight to the orchard for apple cider donuts, caramel apples, and the kids posing with pumpkins larger than Slayden. Mom was even smiling, which, if you’ve ever packed kids in a car for a road trip, is its own small miracle.
We wound our way up the mountain, marveling at the view. The ridges stretched like a patchwork quilt of God’s best handiwork. The Blue Ridge has this way of looking painted, like someone dipped a brush in a mix of sapphire and mist, then finished it off with a golden highlight. I was in my element.
Then it happened.
From the back seat, Kara at the time 6 years of age, and already a mastermind, my child who never touches dirt, the one who thinks hand sanitizer should come in a spray bottle for maximum coverage—let out a phrase no father ever wants to hear.
“Dad… I feel… sick. I’M GOING TO PUKE!”
Time slowed to a crawl. Birds scattered from the trees. My hands locked on the steering wheel. The problem? We were on a mountain road with sheer drop-offs on one side and rocks on the other. No shoulder, no pull-off, no chance. Stopping wasn’t an option unless we wanted to reenact a scene from Final Destination.
The car erupted into chaos. Logan started yelling “DON’T PUKE ON ME!” I immediately began gagging in sympathy. Slayden, sweet baby director of family chaos, clapped his hands like she was watching a circus act.
Jo scrambled like she was on The Price is Right, frantically digging through the car for anything—anything—that might serve as a receptacle for the unworldly substance about to erupt from Mount Karasuvius. Finding nothing, the one day our van was actually empty of all everything, she steeled her nerves, cupped her hands and shot them under the rushing river of yesterdays meal. I went limp, and almost feinted. Logan said what we all were thinking… ” EW GROSS!” Yes Logan, we all agreed.
“Here!” she shouted, thrusting it backward like Indiana Jones offering the Holy Grail.
And Kara… oh, Kara. She didn’t just puke into Jo’s outstretched hands. She performed a feat of precision under pressure that Olympic sharpshooters would envy. Every parent knows the nightmare of kids missing the bucket, the bowl, the bag. But not Kara. She nailed that landing like it was her life’s calling.
The rest of the car sat in stunned silence, broken only by the sound of Logan still muttering, “Don’t puke on me” like a soldier chanting a foxhole prayer.
By the time we found a flat spot to pull over and regroup, the damage was contained—but my soul was not. Nothing prepares you for the smell of warm french fries and cold mountain air mixing with your child’s breakfast. Nothing prepares you for holding your hands at arm’s length like it’s a live grenade while yelling at the other kids to “stop breathing through your mouths.” Ending this tale of woe, Jo threw the remains out the window, providing a meal to some forest creature. Even in chaos, we must be mindful of the animals.
But here’s the kicker: we still went apple-picking. That’s the parental law of sunk costs. If you’ve already risked life and limb on a cliffside road and witnessed projectile betrayal from the backseat, by George you’re going to pick some overpriced apples.
And so we did. We picked apples, we ate cider donuts, and Kara—because kids are resilient and slightly evil—was back to skipping between rows of trees like nothing had happened. Meanwhile, I was left with the memory of my wife holding a days worth of regurgitated food, who freely gave her sanity in service to the family. I watched my family, who I love running back to the fruit stand to get a refill on cider, while i lugged 800lbs of apples up the side of a mountain.
Parenting, they say, prepares you for anything. Wrong. Parenting just makes you realize that “anything” is far worse, grosser, and funnier than you could ever have imagined.
So, lesson of the day? Take the mountain drive. Pick the apples. Enjoy the beauty. But for the love of Virginia, pack a bigger cup.
hope today is puke-free
austininva
