she's got electric boots, a mohair suit

There's something about the long stretch of highway between our house and the big city that makes my kids puke. They're both car sickness prone, just like their mama (who abates sickies by being the driver), so it's not a surprise or anything. Our car is well stocked with extra towels, empty lidded containers and plastic grocery bags. We've got a regular gig going that gets us up and out the door early, when tummies are less settled. I've built into our driving time enough room to stop for one clean-up. I've almost declared it an inevitability. I am a careful but speedy driver, hurrying (within limits!) to beat the dreaded up-chuck. I keep one eye trained on the rear view, so I can rally the girl into throwing her brother a bowl or whatever if he gets that very particular green look.

Today I noticed a few quick urgent movements from the backseat, oh no! And I glanced behind me, but it wasn't what I was expecting, it was just my daughter rocking out to Elton John on the radio and my son throwing back his head in laughter. She saw me watching her and said, "you probably don't know this, but this is one of my favorite songs. Who is this guy, again? Does he have any CDs?" And I think I might get her a greatest hits album, but maybe minus any candle in the wind.