Ford endured an hour of driving in the cramped back seat of the puny Golf car, ready to puke out his heart, when we stopped in Smithville and paused before turning around and returning home. We were driving to Houston for the annual Lights in the Heights, which is a Christmas tradition in my old neighborhood. Mom and Dad had a bell choir on the front porch. The street was closed off. We looked forward to bundling up, boozing up, and towing the kids in a red wagon through the neighborhood, saying hello to old friends.
Poor kid. It broke my heart to watch him tough it out. He is the bravest little boy, so careful not to puke anywhere but into his little yellow bowl. Remembering to say please when asking for a towel. It reduced me to tears when he asked whether the pediatrician’s office that we were taking him to this afternoon was “the one with all the toys where we went when Seti (our old Jack Russell) bit me when I was trying to keep him off the bed because mommy was nursing Chas?”
