It Wasn't the Cake

In the lovely fall days of September, we made the four-hour drive to spend the weekend in the Portland, OR area and  attend the Sunday evening wedding of our great nephew and his beautiful bride.

A fun part about our trip is that our 9 year-old granddaughter Mizelle came along.  She chose to accompany us rather than go to "fall ball" practices and games that her step-dad attended with her brothers.  Her mama, our ER nurse daughter, was scheduled to work.

Mizelle enjoyed the two days with her cousins that live in the area and they all looked forward to the outdoor wedding.

The setting on a hillside overlooking farms and forests was romantic, gorgeous, and designed to provide an intimate setting for the wedding guests.  There was a number of young ones in the children friendly venue and as grandparents we thought we kept a fairly 'eagle' eye on the one for whom we were responsible.  

As the catered reception grew into the later hours we knew we had to leave soon as we planned to drive the four plus hours home that night.  Mizelle certainly wasn't ready to leave. The table of our grandchildren had enjoyed the buffet, the bride and groom toasts, the silly stuff presented by their friends, and each other's company with stories and giggles.  We were waiting for the ceremonious cutting of the cake.  

"We need to leave as soon as you've had your cake, " grandpa reminded her.  But she never got in line for cake.

After we mentioned it a second time she replied, "I don't think I want any cake this time."

With that we said our goodbyes under the protective reception covering and into a typical Oregon rainy mist.

We had just driven out of the parking lot when our Mizelle began to squirm and scream, "O-O-O-O-Oh Grandma!  My tummy hurts terrible."

This attack seemed to come out of nowhere as she had been giggling while we ran to the car. Her grandfather and I were frightened, especially when she asked that we"please, please" call her mama.

We found a gas station promptly where we pulled over to fill our gas tank while addressing Mizelle's tummy ache.   She didn't have a fever, but did shakily announce that she might throw up her dinner. 

I found a container for the possible upchuck as well as my bottle of anti-acid chewables.  She was sure the taste of it was going to make her feel much worse, but she agreed to try it.

I sat next to her in the back seat and let her lay her head on my lap while I rubbed her head and back.  She claimed that the anti-acid didn't help, but I could see that she was relaxing.  Before long she was sound asleep.  The four plus hour trip home remained quiet with just the sounds of her occasional snore or sigh.

During a telephone call the next evening with one of the Portland area daughters, I mentioned Mizelle's sudden belly ache.  

"That is odd," the daughter quipped in a suspicious sort of way then called out to my 13 year old granddaughter, "Curlymop, did Mizelle eat her dinner okay last night at your table?"

I could hear Curlymop's voice get closer to her mom and could understand the last part of her answer, "but she kept going back for the Andes Mints.

"Did she eat a lot of them?" my daughter quizzed.

"Yeaaaaah," sighed Curlymop.  "The lady at the buffet wouldn't let her have anymore so I went back to the table and counted the wrappers at Mizelle's plate."

"And?" Our daughter's voice queried.

"Twenty-seven," Curlymop snorted.

. . . . . . .

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, grandma and grandpa are wondering if Mizelle's mama will ever let us be in charge again.  But, we hope we'll do a better job of supervising next time.