The BoyMommy Family Drives to Florida . . .

For Spring Break this year, we joined another family for a week at a beach in Florida.  I was nervous about the drive from Virginia to Florida.  Not so much because of my three boys, but because of my husband, Negative Nelly.  His track record for positive behavior on car trips has been less than stellar, and we tend to be, um, testy with one another when we’ve been trapped together in an enclosed space with no means of escape traveling.

I admit when I am wrong, however, and I feel compelled to give my Hubby a shout-out so that I might encourage such positive behavior on future car trips.  We only disagreed in two areas:

1.  when / if we should stop to take a break on the way to Florida.  

     I have straight pipes; my plumbing goes straight from my water hole to my nether regions, and as much as I relish the thought of “just using that Gatorade bottle,” my anatomy precludes it.  History tells me (and because I have no filter, you if you click here) that when I feel the urge, it's time to stop.  

     Also, I was very sleepy from all the driving.  Hubby wanted to drive straight through the night, but Mommy knows best . . . and Mommy knew that kids who are sleeping peacefully in the back seat will be kids who are wide awake and raring to go when we pull into Florida at 8am.  These same children will not understand the necessity of parental sleep.  At 2 a.m., I convinced Hubby that we should rest, but alas, none of the roadside hotels had vacancies at that point.  We ended up cramming all 5 of us into 2 double beds (not queen beds, mind you . . . good, ole fashioned double beds) at an Econo Lodge.  You know times are tough when I agree to sleep at an Econo Lodge.  This princess hasn’t stayed in an Econo Lodge since prom night 1990, and suffice it to say that my standards were much lower then.

      2.  the awesomeness that IS South of the Border.  

           Believe it or not, Hubby would have driven right by South of the Border without stopping.  I know, right?  I could have spent hours in that joint – trying on crazy hats that have already been atop many a tourist’s head, punching people with those little ninja nun spring-action puncher thingies, and trying to justify paying $8.99 for a Pedro coloring book.  Hubby came in to the gift shop for a few minutes and then retreated to the car.  Apparently kitsch is beneath him.  I helped the boys pick out some things we don’t need souvenirs and then realized I had forgotten my wallet.  I buckled everyone in before I ran back inside to pay for our wares, and Small kept repeating, excitedly, “’mingo, ‘mingo, ‘mingo!”  

     “What’s he saying?” Hubby asked. 

     “You’ll see,” I sang.  I returned with one of these:

 

"Maybe the 'mingo ate your baby!"

Clearly, it’s a flaMINGO.  Out of all the items in the gift shop, what Small had his heart set on was a pink ‘mingo. 

All in all, it was a great vacation.  Lest you think my own behavior was devoid of moodiness, sarcasm, and foul language, I will admit that Hubby told me not 2 hours into the trip, “get it all out now because I’m not listening to it all week.”  Like I can help it that he needs a little extra guidance from the passenger seat. . .