"Vacation." The Quotation Marks Indicate Sarcasm.

 

The summer months will soon be upon us, (if Mother Nature ever decides to make up her friggin' mind) and that means the kids will be home for summer “vacation.”  I use the term “vacation” lightly, because, as most parents know, a vacation for the kids does NOT constitute a vacation for the grown-ups. In fact, I think the last time I had a true vacation was on our honeymoon in 1999.  Hubby and I had been together so long by the time we actually got married, our honeymoon was essentially a vacation from each other as well.  Other couples were makin’ out in the hot tub.  Hubby entered the volleyball tournament at the resort while I read my novel, enjoyed a frosty beverage (or 5), and lounged under a beach umbrella.  We’d check in with each other after a few hours, because, you know . . .  romance and all. 

Most vacations I’ve taken since then have included none of the aforementioned accoutrements.  I cannot read a novel on the beach for fear of my children drowning, being trapped in a sand hole, or losing an appendage to shark attack.  I can’t enjoy a frosty beverage because by the time I actually get to sit down and enjoy it it’s either filled with wayward sand or it is melted to syrupy sludge.  And last time we were at the beach the umbrella broke because American beaches are windy.  So I spend most of my beach time applying SPF 50 sunscreen, or as I like to call it – a cardigan in a can, and trying to keep my hair out of my mouth.

(travel.kingsgo.com)
Our vacations are JUST like this!!!

 Sigh.

Our family vacations never quite live up to the standard set by Disney channel commercials.  Our children do not sit in the back seat, quietly coloring or making hand waves on the wind outside the window.  They argue about whose turn it is to choose the dvd, complain about their excessive hunger, and then announce that they have to use the potty approximately every 30 miles.  What did we ever do before the invention of the Swagger Wagon dvd player? 

When I was little, we used to drive eight hours from Virginia to upstate New York.  My mom was equipped with a bag of sour balls and a hand-held tape recorder, on which we would listen to Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler” for mile after mile.  She would get annoyed because I never understood how Lucille (of you-picked-a-fine-time-to-leave-me-Lucille fame) could have 400 children.  “It’s Four.  Hungry.  Children!  For the last time!”  Testy, that one.  Perhaps it was the un-air-conditioned atmosphere of the Chevy Nova that contributed to my mother’s discomfort.  Certainly it wasn’t the endless loop of Kenny Rogers tunes on the cassette tape; that man is a musical genius.

            Car trips are going to be the death of me, and it’s not the kids.  It’s the spouse.  Every time we stop for gas he buys snacks for the boys.  Never mind that I’ve packed healthy snacks for the trip.  Apparently they need king-size chocolate bars and 24-ounce Gatorades, and then Hubby gets annoyed that they have to pee.  This is why I totally endorse dehydrating my children on long car trips.  Also, I am from the school of thought that believes it necessary to travel from Virginia to Florida in TWO days.  Not one.

            I am a planner.  I am a woman who keeps 3 running calendars – one for the kitchen whiteboard, one on my phone, and a day runner.   It should come as no surprise that I think we should plan ahead and make hotel reservations.  On our most recent trip to Florida, on which The Plan was to wing it and just stop when we got tired, we found ourselves on a stretch of Interstate 95 in South Carolina in a heavy rainstorm, trying to get a hotel room at the same time as every other weary traveler.  When I got to the lobby to register, there were 12 other guests in front of me.  We finally got to our room and played a quick game of Identify That Smell.  

Um, I’m gonna go with cat urine for the Win.  

The boys were bouncing on one of the two double beds on which our family of five would be sleeping, trying to release 12 hours’ worth of pent-up energy, while I yelled at them to NOT touch the bedspread because I was having flashbacks of a Dateline NBC investigative report involving black lights.  I slept in my clothes, and I dared not open the mini-fridge, lest I find something that the previous tenant left behind.  Like a human head or something. 

I am grateful for the change of scenery and the opportunity to travel with my family, but there’s something to be said for clean sheets, a “headless” refrigerator, and having a plan.

The Happiest Place on Earth

The BoyMommy family just returned from a trip to Orlando.  We had a great time, but even Disney World is not perfect, despite what those television advertisements with the smiley, tan, happy family might say.  

I found myself repeating the mantra "It's the happiest place on earth.  It's the happiest place on earth.  But it's supposed to be THE HAPPIEST place on Earth!"  

Things that bug me:

1.  Families who walk 5 abreast while holding hands.  Move along, Waltons.

2.  People who stop suddenly to look at a map or to take a photo.  I will ram your ankles with my stroller.  Just FYI.

3.   The fact that we traveled to sunny Florida with shorts and t-shirts and the weather was cold, cloudy, and rainy.  Mother Nature, you are a fickle b*tch.

4.  A Photographer wants to snap your picture every 15 feet, but when you go to view the photos, only 2 of the 6 employees behind the counter are “trained” in the art of PhotoPass downloading. 

5.   People whose personal space requirements are a few cubic feet smaller than mine.  Back up; I will cut you.

6.  Grown-ups who roll their eyes when they hear a child having a meltdown.  You’re at Disney World.  There are A LOT of kids here.  One or two of them are going to miss naptime and/or stay up past their bedtime because we-paid-a-sh*tload-of-money-for-these-tickets-we’re-staying-until-closing-time-dammit.  Take a deep breath, remember that kids get cranky, and keep your eye-rolling to yourself.

7.  Seriously, Walt.  I just paid $15 out of desperation so I could rent a stroller for my exhausted preschooler . . . you can’t hook us up with a seat that reclines?

8.  I just saw that Mickey t-shirt at Target for 7 bucks.

9.   Kissy people in line.  I don’t want to have to cover my son’s eyes as you writhe against each other as if one of you is a soldier on leave.

10.   Left-side-of-the-road walkers.  I realized Disney World attracts tourists from all over and that “rules” are different in various parts of the world.  But when you are the only one walking against a throng of people going in the other direction, move out' the way.  

Don't Tailgate the Swagger Wagon

Faithful readers, as you know, I like to take out my aggression via open letters to people who have done me wrong. 

I present to you an open letter to the teenager who was tailgating me this morning.

Dear Bad Driver,

We are nowhere near the Indianapolis 500 race track.  The posted speed limit for our community is 25 miles per hour. 

I was driving between 25 and 30 miles per hour for two reasons.  One, I am a law-abiding citizen, and two, it was 8:00 in the morning and school buses are traversing our streets.  Children are waiting at their bus stops, so it is ultra important to be vigilant and aware.  (This also goes for the woman in the black SUV who keeps doing the hands-in-the-air WTF sign when she has to stop for my boys' bus.  Calm yourself.)

Was your passenger in labor?  Bleeding profusely and needing immediate medical attention?  Trying to get to her dying grandmother before she took her last breath?  If not, then there was NO reason for you to be driving approximately 2-3 feet from my rear bumper. 

When I obnoxiously slowed down to 10 miles per hour, it was to draw your attention to how closely you were riding my @ss, not to get you to honk your (high-pitched, girly-sounding) horn and swerve out of the lane as if to pass me.  While I realize my pimped out swagger wagon may have led you to believe that I wanted to race, I can assure you that I did not.  I’ll let you in on a little secret: it’s a mini-van, and I have no desire to play vehicular chicken.

And let me tell you something else: I was carrying my precious cargo.  It terrifies me to think that your carelessness and your aggression could cause an accident in which one of my children is hurt.  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, especially if you've hurt one of her babies.

You are not invincible.  I know you think you are, but you ARE NOT.  Please act like the responsible young adult that your parents think you are.  I know they would be horrified to learn of your behavior behind the wheel.  

You will get where you need to be, I promise. 

Slow your sh*t.

Thank you,

BoyMommy

Disney, part 2

We arrived in Orlando and boarded our Disney bus to the resort.  I was a little worried about the hotel because it was listed as a "Value Resort." 

I will admit it.  I have become a hotel snob.  I think it comes from watching too many exposé episodes of Dateline . . . you know the ones with the undercover hotel guest who is armed with a black light and the ability to find peep holes (because apparently all current hotel employees were once cast members in the 1980’s movie Meatballs.)  I travel with my own blanket because I can’t stand the thought of hotel blankets touching my face, and I pack socks because I don’t like my bare feet touching the floor.

We decided, since our visit to Disney World would be short, that in order to max out our time, we would stay on a Disney property.  Hubby, the money-conscious CPA, chose a hotel listed in the Value category. 

I'm thinking something along the lines of an Econo Lodge.  Um, hello! . . . it's not prom night circa 1990!  

Personally, I would have gone with the Luxury level, but I wasn’t paying the bill.

I am happy to report that the Value resort was perfect . . . every child had his own bed (be it sofa bed or cot,) we had a kitchenette with a fridge, and there were two bathrooms (one for Mommy and one for, well, everyone else.)  Girls only.  Keep out.

And the restaurant served beer.  You know what takes the edge off after a long day at the Most Magical Place on Earth? 

A six-pack o’ Miller Lite.

We had pre-purchased our tickets to the park, and Hubby was determined that we were going to get our money’s worth.  This can be translated as follows: we are going to arrive at the park so that we are the first people in line and we aren’t leaving until Mickey himself kicks us out.  Day one was great . . . no major meltdowns.  None of the kids melted down either.  Mommy only got mad at Daddy one time, and that was when he left us at the lunch table so he could set up a chair near an outlet elsewhere, ostensibly so that he could charge his phone though what he was really doing was watching the play-by-play of the baseball game.  Everyone had a great time and we were all ready to go back for another day of overpriced magic. 

Here we are!!!

We misread the schedule on day two, however.  After spending all day at the park the day before, we woke at 6 am so that we could catch the shuttle bus over to the park.  We were TOTALLY first in line!  . . . because the park didn’t open at 8 am; it opened at 9.  We spent two coffeeless hours waiting for the turnstiles to open.  By 10 pm when the boys were dragging their feet, my legs were sore, and I was cranky could barely keep my eyes open, Hubby decided we were going to ride just a few more rides . . . you know, to max out our time.  We caught the shuttle back to the hotel after midnight.  

We were all exhausted and irritable the next day, which was when the boys and I were scheduled to fly home.  We made our way to the airport with all our luggage and our souvenirs.  After a leisurely lunch, we settled into a sitting area in the Orlando airport to wait the remaining 2 hours until our flight.  Hubby booted up his computer while the boys played on the iPad. 

Demons must have possessed his body for a moment, because no one who is married to me would have asked the following:

“Do you need me for anything?  Do you mind if I head back to the hotel so I can get started on some work?”

I could have responded with a sweet but-I-like-spending-time-with-you or honey-I-could-really-use-your-help or something equally as saccharine.  But, you see, his innocent question was about to make me batsh*t crazy.  “YES.  I.  mind.  Would YOU sit with three exhausted children in a strange airport for two hours by yourself?”

So no, he did not go back to the hotel to get started on work.

Misery loves company, motherf*cker.

When the time finally arrived for Hubby to gain his freedom us to head to our flight, we were sent through a family-friendly security line.  This is gonna be a breeze, I thought. 

We arrived at our gate and I once again discovered that we would be boarding with Group 7.  Super.  There were literally 3 people who boarded after us.  Heaven forbid they take pity on the haggard-looking mom with the three hyper children.  Sure enough, just as they called for Group 7, Small took off running.  I dropped the stroller, which I was carrying over my shoulder, my purse, and a carry-on and told Medium and Large to stay right where they were.  I went running after Small, and of course, Medium and Large ran with me, running in circles and giggling at the sight of Mommy, all persweaty and bouncing through the airport after a wayward toddler. 

Thanks for spending $7 so I could nap the entire flight!

Sigh. 

We finally boarded the plane.  I noticed this plane was equipped with televisions on the back of every seat, and for the low, low price of $7 each, all three of my boys could watch tv.  Hubby would never allow that.  Seven dollars each?  That’s a rip off! 

Guess what?  I swiped my credit card.  Three times. 

Swipe.  Swipe.  Swipe.  Best $21 bucks I ever spent.