"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 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. . . 

Buh-Bye Kids!

If you are a lucky homeowner in my 'hood who received your copy of the neighborhood magazine, you've probably read it cover to cover and hence you will have already seen the following post.  For those of you in the reading audience who do NOT live in my 'hood, I am affording you the opportunity to read this piece of literary genius, free of charge!  You're welcome.

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year . . .

Nope, not the holidays; it’s back-to-school time.  Don’t get me wrong.  I adore my children and I am extremely fortunate that I am able to stay home with them, but sometimes I’d like to use the potty without an audience.  It’s a luxury I’m afforded only during the school year. 

Phyllis Diller famously said that “cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.”  Many of the homes in our neighborhood are immaculately decorated, spotlessly clean, and well-stocked with fancy cheeses and highly rated wines.  We’ve got juice boxes, Cheez-Its, and the “this-is-why-we-can’t-have-nice-things” speech running in a constant loop over the sound system.  My summer housekeeping skills make a college fraternity house look as sterile as an operating room.  I know my home has potential.   It would be absolutely lovely if I lived here ALONE. 

The only time our home is actually clean is while the children are at school.  After they get on the bus, I clean up the breakfast dishes, (and by dishes, I mean the paper towel where I placed their toast,) pick up a little, and try to enjoy it. . . . but only until 3:00.  Between the hours of 3:00 pm and 8:00 pm, a tornado of trailer park proportions whizzes through our home. 

One would think with all our toys and their various accoutrements, our children would be able to find SOMETHING to do, but alas, they are bored.  If I hear “what are we going to do today?” one more time, I will likely stick my head in the oven.  As a child, I remember going outside to play, riding bikes, building forts, reading books, playing with my friends, etc.  My children act as if I am their camp counselor, responsible for their every entertainment. 

We are raising a generation of citizens with “First World” Problems.  You have so many Wii games, you can’t choose just one?  You can’t get your bike out of the garage because it’s so crowded with other ride-on toys?  You get sweaty when you walk to the pool conveniently located in the neighborhood?  Your friends are at camp, so you have to play basketball in your very own driveway all by yourself?  You poor, poor thing.  I’m not sure how you find the strength to get up in the morning. 

It’s difficult to teach our children the healthy balance between recognizing how lucky they are while being aware that much of the world is not as fortunate.  It’s a lesson I’d do well to remember too.  I have a messy house because I have an active family of five.  I rarely have any alone time because my children enjoy hanging on me being with me.  They are bored because they are afforded so much stimulation that they need to be taught to appreciate down time. 

So while it is true that we can’t have nice things and my house is never clean, this too shall pass.  One day soon I’ll be remembering these times fondly, because I imagine it’s similar to childbirth – you don’t remember the pain, you only remember the end result.  Until then, happy brand new school year, y’all!  Here’s wishing your family academic success, friendly faces, stellar teachers, and the chance for Mommy to use the potty alone.

Why Do I Have to Do Everything Around Here?

In the past week, two of my children have announced, “I have to do EVERYTHING around here!”  I won’t tell you which two, but suffice it to say it was not the child whose only complete sentence is “I wan git out.”

I had asked someone to pick up legos and I had asked someone else to take his shoes upstairs to his room.  Both requests were enough to send my exhausted, overworked children into meltdown mode.  Obviously I’m running some sort of child labor camp out here in the ‘burbs. 

Just for the sake of argument, some of MY responsibilities around here:

• Make lunches (pb for one, jelly for the other.  Because heaven forbid they want the same thing.)
• Laundry – carrying it downstairs, separating it, folding it, putting it away, repeat.
• Oversee homework – this includes actively monitoring the process as I am forced to be a hoverer lest it not get completed . . . which ultimately leads to a very tense Thursday evening.
• Load/unload the dishwasher.
• Wipe the yellow from around the toilet bowl.
• Steam clean the carpet where the dog peed.  Again.
• Wait for the plumber.
• Go Grocery shopping.
• Make sure each bathroom is appropriately stocked with toothpaste, toilet paper, and soap
• Drop off and pick up the dry-cleaning.
• Change light bulbs.  (oops, I forgot: the Lighbulb Fairy does that.)
• Take the dog to the vet.
• Transport patients to various dentist/doctor/allergist appointments.
• Prepare delightful meals that my children won’t eat.
• Keep the family calendar.
• Taxi children to Cub Scouts and various sports practices.
• Attend parent-teacher conferences and field phone calls from the principal.
• Vacuum, since I’m still finding random Christmas ornament hangers embedded in the carpet.
• Make sure we always have an epipen, ibuprofin, children's cough medicine, neosporin, bandaids, and pepto.
• Make sure the Cub Scout uniforms are ready for Wednesday and Friday, the basketball uniform is ready for Monday and Saturday, and the baseball uniform is ready for Sunday.
• Plan spectacular birthday parties that rival the festivities surrounding the Royal Wedding.

And that’s just the BIG stuff.  There are lots of mundane little tasks that I also take care of:

• Turning the Wii on
• Pouring milk
• Reaching the top shelf of the pantry
• Turning the shower on
• Reaching the top drawer
• Cutting the top off the yogurt
• Twisting the top off the Gatorade
• Putting batteries in the remote
• Tying shoes
• Wiping snotty/boogery/crusty noses
• Wiping, um, other things

AND I do all this while trying to maintain a modicum of my former intelligence, any youthful good looks I may have once had, and an enthusiastic parenting attitude, while trying not to hit the sauce until after 5pm.

So yes, children – clearly I owe you an apology for asking you to pitch in a bit.  I’ll do that right after I finish sitting on my @ss while watching my stories.

Glitter = Mommy Anthrax

Last night our neighborhood sponsored an activity for children that featured cookie decorating, ornament making, and a tree lighting.  As a tired/haggard/frustrated mother, I appreciate their effort and I loved the fact that the boys were tired when we got home, which meant a quick bath and straight to bed.  (No, not straight to sleep; straight to bed.  There's a difference.  Straight to bed means I watch tv and ignore them while they stand at the top of the stairs asking for water and/or hugs and announce their need to pee.)  However, it was obvious to me that the event planners are not parents themselves. 

The Evidence:

The “festivities” began at 5:00 pm.  We were the 2^nd family to arrive and the boys made a bee-line for the ornament-decorating table.  It was a simple craft, but it involved glitter glue.  Who in their right mind sets out glitter glue for a room full of children, the oldest of whom is 8 years old?  Obviously someone inexperienced in the playdoh/moonsand/fingerpaint genre of childsplay. 

Glitter.  Everywhere.

Next they moved on to cookie decorating.  Along the same lines, this activity involved colored icing and sprinkles.  We’ve added sugar to the mix, and it’s only 5:15.  The lighting of the tree didn’t happen until 6:00, so I spent 45 minutes chasing my toddler around the room, pulling him out of the men’s room, and holding him by one arm while he did the limp body dangle.  He looked like a very cute, highly-sugared and perpetually snotty bobble-head marionette because apparently sugar makes him lose control of his neck muscles.  The older two were wrestling with the neighbor kids, touching each of the Christmas tree ornaments, and bouncing on the sofa as if they were at home. 

Seriously?
You gave my kids glitter and sprinkles?
I'm plotting your death . . . 

There were several of us mommies who had toddlers at this function.  We all looked alike:  wine glass in one hand, toddler’s hand in the other and trying to carry on an adult conversation while giving the this-is-neither-the-time-nor-the-place speech through clenched teeth and a fake smile.  I had exactly one conversation last night with another mother, and we discussed my favorite subject . . . people who know how to parent other people’s children better than the actual parents themselves.  (This group is generally comprised of the elderly, the childless, and those employed in the cash-register field.)

They didn’t light the tree until after an inappropriately high-heeled, short-skirted woman sang Rudolph with the kids.  She sang with a shaky voice and seemed nervous, which kinda makes me laugh because kids are the BEST audience ever!  They could give a sh*t what YOU sound like; they just want to belt out the words as loudly as they can.  Oh, there’s a tune to this song? 

I may have lost my Christmas spirit for a moment and uttered under my breath, “just light the damn tree already!”  Hypothetically.

Merry Christmas and all that.

Ridin' the Rails with Stinky Stinkerson

Hubby was working in NYC all last week, so the boys and I thought we’d go visit for the weekend, catch up with old friends, and hang out at some of our favorite spots. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Since we’ve spent many long hours sitting in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike and said turnpike does NOT bring out my better qualities, we decided to take the train.  We would leave at 6:05, and since Small’s regular bedtime is 7 pm, I assumed he would fall asleep . . . a precious little angel all snuggled in my arms and rocking to the gentle rhythm of the swaying train.

Um, that’s not how it went down.

Everything started out great.  The boys were excited to be taking the train, I had packed the ginormous suitcase and put it in the Swagga Wagon, and traffic into DC was bearable.  We arrived at the train station right on time, parked, got dinner to-go, and headed for the line to get ready to board.  The line was at least 100 deep, which made me think it wasn’t for our train, as we still had a half hour before departure.  Sure enough, a redcap flagged me down, asked me where I was going, and said “follow me.” 

I LOVE it when people are kind and helpful.  It totally restores my faith in humanity.

He parted the crowds like Moses and the Sea and led us to a secret entrance to the tracks.  He found us four seats facing each other and stowed my luggage and bid us adieu.  Best 5 bucks I ever spent.

Then the squirming started.  Ever traveled with a toddler who was so beyond exhausted that his eyes started rolling back into his head?

Two. And-a-half.  Hours.  Of squirming/screaming/wriggling.  It was like trying to hold onto a bag full of cats.  Remember that scene from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation where Rusty realizes Aunt Bethany has wrapped the cat as a Christmas gift?  Like that.

I have never been so happy to see Hubby as I was when we got to the top of the escalator at Penn Station and he was waiting with open arms.  But that was short lived, because our next stop was the tiniest hotel room known to man. 

All five of us squeezed into a hotel room.  We had our bed, a pull-out couch for Medium and Large, and we stuck Small in the pack-n-play in the bathroom.  There were two main problems with this configuration, however.

1. Once we got everyone settled in bed, there was literally no space to walk because of all the quality hotel furniture, the stroller, and our luggage.
2. Since Small was asleep in the bathroom, if you had to pee you were out of luck.  Which may be why certain members of our entourage had “accidents” the first night. 

That’s a whole lotta family togetherness.

The trip home didn’t start out much better.  We boarded the train after finding a redcap to help us with our luggage.  We looked like sherpas . . . wearing as much clothing as we could and with backpacks strapped on every available shoulder.  As we were getting settled into our seats, Hubby and I both smelled something.

Of course, our first inclination was for each of us to ask, “was that YOU?”

Cute.  But veddy, veddy steenky.

Oh, right.  The baby.  

So don’t judge us, but we were already on the train, and those train bathrooms are comparable in size to an airplane restroom.  We were desperate.  We did what we had to do.  We took Small a few rows back, away from as many people as possible, and quickly changed his stinky.  While Hubby did the actual procedure, I stood at the ready so that I could transport the offending diaper to a trashcan outside the train.

But you know SOMEBODY had to make a comment.

I got the stink-eye from a young woman a few rows up.  I cringed apologetically and said, “sorry.  We’ll be done in a second,” because I realized this was not an ideal situation.

“Ugh.  Seriously?  Can’t you do that somewhere else?” she replied.  Because she’s what?  20?  And she knows what it’s like to travel with a family of young children, one of whom is probably going to start screaming soon and who will be way unhappy if he has to fester in a dirty diaper for the next 3.5 hours?  “You can’t use the restroom or something?  Those restrooms are huge.”

Possible sarcastic responses:

• “Yes, I could, but then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of engaging you in polite conversation.”

• “Really?  Huge?  Judging from the look on your terrified boyfriend’s face and my impression that he’s not allowed to have an opinion, I’m guessing your idea of “huge” and mine are two different things.”

• “We could have used any number of restrooms we passed along the way, all of which were line-less and gleeming with cleanliness and sanitation, given we’re in friggin’ Manhattan.  But I decided to wait until 2 minutes before departure time because I like the excitement of having a deadline.”

Stuff.  Lots and lots of stuff.

I get it.  No one wants to smell poop.  But what were we supposed to do, really?  There’s no changing table in a bathroom that consists of a metal toilet and the equivalent of an upside-down water fountain.  We couldn’t disembark with our family of five, a stroller, 2 suitcases, bags, and five winter coats, travel up the escalator, undress the baby, change him, travel down the escalator, find five seats together, stow our luggage/stroller/bags/coats, ETCTERA, just so you don’t have to plug your nose for what amounted to about 30 seconds of unpleasantness.

So pipe down. 

Oh, and a private note to the mean 20-year-old with no sympathy for haggard parents of a stinky toddler: you got off at Newark.  Newark.  You think this is the last experience with STINK you’re gonna have today?  Happy holidays . . .

Random Thoughts

• Hubby changed the lightbulb in the boys’ bathroom.  The Lightbulb Fairy usually takes care of these mundane tasks so that Hubby and our precious offspring never even notice a light is burned out, but I . . . I mean The Lightbulb Fairy . . . couldn’t reach this particular light.  Given my general lack of balance/grace/coordination, I thought it best to ask Hubby to do it.  The problem is that we got those "green" flourescent lights.  I’m pretty sure my neighbors think we have a grow light in our children’s bathroom.  I can assure you, we do NOT.  If we did, I would be so chill, dude. 

• Given my last post, How I've Been Spending/Wasting My Time, I’ve decided that I’m a Manic-Depressive Crafter.  I get creative to the point where my glue gun really needs its own holster.  (I could totally make my glue gun a holster!)   Then I do nothing but watch TV for two months.  I have been known to knit, scrapbook, arrange flowers, make wreaths, sew, bead, cross-stitch, and so on.  And then I have vegged on my couch.  How else do I explain the fact that I have seen all six seasons of Dawson’s Creek?

• I am an equal opportunity candy thief.  I separated the boys’ loot into two cereal bins and carefully marked their names on each.  The rest I threw in the trash because I could feel myself getting Type 2 Diabetes.  I don’t want one son to think I love the other more, so if I take two from Large’s bin I feel compelled to take two from Medium’s bin.  It’s because I love them so much, you see.  On the flip side, when Medium asked at BINGO the other night, “how come they get to buy cupcakes and we don’t?”  I replied with, “I guess their mother loves them more than I love you.” 

• I have been blessed with good neighbors.  During a recent bout of potty issues, (which you can ready ALL about here . . . um, you're welcome!)  my neighbor stepped up to the plate and insisted that she watch my boys so I could go to the OB/GYN in peace.  Well, at least as much peace as you can have with a curious toddler in tow:

• We had two teacher workdays last week, so the boys were out of school on Monday and Tuesday.  In lieu of telling them to please, fortheloveofpete, chill the f*ck out, I made them harness their chi with a little yoga.

• And finally . . . the decorating challenges of the coach’s wife.  Yes, folks, that is a big-@ss trophy that has taken up residence ON my mantle IN the family room where everyone can see it.  

I hate trophies.  They are hideous, obnoxious, plastic, unnaturally-colored, phallically-shaped, dust catchers.  I can’t.  stand.  dust-catchers.  This one has worn out its welcome.  I can’t melt it down and make me some bracelets because, (please prepare for the shock of what I’m about to say,) it’s not real gold. 

I KNOW!  

I ask you, what is the sense in giving a team one GINORMOUS trophy?  What are we going to do, pass it around from family to family?  We’d have to rent a U-Haul just to transport it to the next house.  (And I’m not allowed to drive U-Hauls anymore ever since I hit that red pillar thing at the gas station and had to get two gracious Hispanic men in a white panel van to jimmy the lock since the keys were inside.  They had lots of tools and lock-jimmying knowledge.  I didn’t ask questions.) 

I'll be right back.  Mama needs a Snickers.