It's the Most Magical Place on Earth, Dammit.

A few weeks ago we took the boys to Disney World.  Hubby was teaching a training session the next week, so we decided to take the boys to Orlando for a long weekend. 

We had a great time, and it was so fun to take Small for his first time at Disney.

But . . . .

You know how the commercials show energetic, excited children chasing balloons gleefully and lovingly holding their parents’ hands?  I want THAT family.

We picked the boys up at school early on Friday so that we could catch our flight to Orlando.  Hubby complained about what he apparently considers my worst character flaw: slow packing.  Keep in mind he throws some clean undies and some t-shirts in a bag and he’s done.  I pack for the 3 boys and myself.  They require many accoutrements, including special stuffed friends and blankets, entertainment for the plane, matching swimsuits, etc., and I require many accoutrements because, well, it takes a lot of work to be a natural beauty.

"Apparently Her Majesty
 doesn't want to carry on."

So Hubby was already annoyed that we had several pieces of luggage for which we would have to pay a $25 fee.  He suggested that we pack everything for our family of 5 in carry-on bags that we could easily take with us onto the plane, but I gently reminded him areyououtofyourever-lovin'mind? that I would be making the return leg of the trip by myself with 3 active, exhausted male children, a stroller, and, according to him, plastic grocery bags that were supposed to double as inconspicuous luggage. 

$25 bucks it is.  It's a small price to pay to keep Her Majesty happy.

We arrived at the airport in plenty of time, which was good, because the line to get through security held more people than Rockefeller Plaza during a Beiber appearance.  Luckily my children are super patient and well-behaved so waiting in line for something as exciting as getting to take your shoes off and walk through a metal detector towards a menacing-looking stranger in a TSA uniform was no biggie.

Sigh.

And also, Hubby is super patient and well-behaved and is not the type to complain for the duration of our wait about how long the line is . . . we’re going to miss our flight . . . this is ridiculous . . . is this the first time these people have ever been to an airport? . . . who wears lace up boots through security? . . . no I’m not wearing any metal, etc.

We got to our gate with 3 children, all of whom were ours, so that was a bonus, and our stroller and our carry-ons full of schnacky-schnacks and in-flight entertainment for the under 10 crowd.  OF COURSE it was a packed flight, so we were relieved when the flight attendant announced that service members, special people who sit in first class and look down their monocles at the riff-raff who are assigned to seats three rows behind them, and people with special needs could board.

Special needs.  That’s us.

But nope.  The flight attendant gently reminded us that this was a flight to Orlando, that most people flying were families with young children, and that we would have to wait our turn. 

Now I’m just one person and I have no desire to take on a huge corporation so I won’t name them outright, but the airline starts with a U.  (and ends with a “nited.”)

Hubby uttered a few choice words that were inappropriate for young ears and made sarcastic comments under his breath really loudly while we waited for our group to be called.  In keeping with the rest of this adventure, we were to board as Group 7, so we would be boarding last, and because said airline felt the most logical way to board the aircraft was from front to back, our family of five would be climbing over monocle-wearing, brandy-sipping, Wall Street Journal-reading first class passengers as well as six other groups of passengers.

Once we were seated and buckled, the captain made an announcement that we would be delayed at least an hour so the ground crew could fix some maintenance issues.  This put Hubby over the edge.  He was sitting two rows ahead of the rest of the family because he had booked his flight through work and booked ours online.  I gently tapped the gentleman sitting next to him and told him not to engage my Hubby in conversation because “it only encourages him,” and then instructed Hubby that he had between now and when this plane lands to improve his attitude.

Because we’re going to the Most Magical Place on Earth, dammit.

I'm Late! (not *that* kinda late, but I got your attention, didn't I?)

Scenes from my Most Recent Meltdown

annetaintor.com

Picture this:

Last week I had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for 9:15 AM.  I got the boys on the bus and dropped Small at preschool and arrived a few minutes early for my appointment. When the receptionist checked me in, she gently reminded me that I had a balance on my account.

Hmm . . . that’s strange.  I’ve only been here once before and we pay our bills on time.  She explained:  I had missed my previously scheduled appointment. 

Indeed, I had missed my appointment.  I called the office on the day of my appointment to notify them that I would not be able to make it.  At this point I don’t even remember my reason, but I know it had something to do with preschool or child care or something.  There was a damn good reason why I missed that appointment. 

I was annoyed at having to pay a fee, which I figured would be about $25. 

“But I called in,” I explained to the receptionist. 

“Yes, but it’s hard for us to fill those early morning appointments.  The doctor loses money, so she implemented a $75 no-show policy,” she retorted.

“$75???  I’m annoyed that I’m expected to pay this fee,” I explained, because I feel it is necessary to TELL people when I am annoyed, just in case they don’t pick up on my vibe.  “Shit happens.  Obviously it was not ideal for me to miss the appointment, but things come up.  I had issues with child care!”

“I understand, but this is the doctor’s policy.  People were missing appointments and she was losing money.”  Again with the money.  Then she went in for the kill . . . “You signed the form.”

Ah yes, the form . . . . the form that’s in the middle of the multi-page packet, where they ask you important questions like your husband’s social security number and the date of your last menstrual cycle and how often you participate in recreational drug use, and you’re supposed to fill it out accurately while corralling your offspring and preventing them from throwing dirt from the potted plants at the old, humorless couple who are giving you the stink eye from their perch in the corner.  That one.  Yep, I signed it all right.  I would have signed anything at that point.

I certainly understand the need for rules and policies.  I am sure patients have missed appointments because of their own negligence, and I know some people are habitually late.  I am not one of those people.  However, I have three children who need my assistance getting out the door in the morning, and sometimes their cooperation is less than stellar, which means I may be a little late, no matter how much extra time I build into the morning for events such as these.  Or I may need to make a last-minute decision regarding my whereabouts.  

“Forget it,” I said.  “I’ll find a doctor who’s a little more accommodating.”  I started for the door and then thought, “is she going to charge me $75 for THIS appointment?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, smugly.  “She’ll have to review your case and then make her decision.” 

I left, all indignant and full of self-righteousness.

Then I went to my Swagger Wagon and cried, because that’s what I do when I’m frustrated and angry. 

I called Hubby and tearfully explained the situation, thinking he’d be all “hell yeah.  You’re right.  Screw them!”

annetaintor.com

“You need to go back,” he insisted.  “You need to see a doctor and you don’t have time to wait another 3-6 months to wait for an appointment.  Of course she’s going to charge you for this appointment . . . she knows you’re not coming back.”  Dammit, I hate it when he’s right.  Mommies don’t ever seem to have time to take care of themselves, and here I was, trying to do something for me, and the universe was punishing me!

So I went back in with my tail between my legs and asked if the doctor would see me. 

The receptionist’s snarky reply?  “She can see you at 11:30.”  In two hours.  Super. 

I explained that I needed to pick that pesky preschooler up at 11:30 so I would need to leave by 11:00.  Lo and behold, the doctor squeezed me in at 10:40.  Guess what?  My blood pressure was high.  Weird.

Oh, and also?  I’ve gained, um, some weight since I last saw the doctor 6 months ago.  She ordered some blood work so she can check my thyroid.

“It’s not my thyroid,” I wailed.  “It’s donuts!” 

Donuts.  Yummy, yummy, fried dough.  Maybe I’ll treat myself to a donut after the rough morning I’ve had . . .

I'm Judgy McJudgerson. Nice to Meet You.

You know how I’m always preaching advising that mothers should not criticize other mothers because we’re all struggling in our own way, even if the persona we present publicly is a mixture of Mary Poppins and June Cleaver?   (Not Roseanne, like I portray.) 

Don't make me judge you . . . 

Well fasten your seatbelts, readers; I’m about to get all Judgy McJudgerson on you’re a$$es. 

On Wednesday, February 8 an article entitled “School Tardiness Sends Waterford Parents to Court” appeared in our local paper, the Loudoun Times-Mirror.  (I know that was a week ago. Pipe down.  I've got a family to raise.) 

Hmmmm, I thought.  I am a former educator and currently a parent.  I am going to read this article.  Then I’m going to extrapolate my unsolicited opinion for my unsuspecting readers to enjoy.  

You’re welcome.

You can read the article in its entirety here.

My favorite parts of the article read as follows:

Mark Denicore leaves early for work each morning from his home in Waterford.  His wife, Amy, is in charge of getting their three children ready and out the door for school.  With three children, all under age 10, it can be challenging to get them ready all at once and make it to school on time.  

What is every parent’s early-morning routine challenge has now turned into a legal battle and a potential life-changing event for the family.

 

On January 31, the Denicores were served with a summons to appear in court on a Class 3 misdemeanor for their daughter Sophie’s excessive tardiness.

The Denicores admit they’re not perfect parents.  Their three children have been late to school 85 times since September, but the majority of the time they missed the opening bell by only a few minutes.

 [Just for the sake of clarification, two children have been late 29 times and one has been late 27 times.]

"The three children have only missed less than three hours each of school since September," Mark Denicore said.

 

Amy Denicore is a stay-at-home mom and either drives their children to school or allows them to walk the few blocks to Waterford Elementary."

 

Although he and his wife had been warned of the constant tardies, they didn’t feel the school system would take it to this extreme.

So.  Much.  Judging.  To Do. 

1. I, too, have three children under the age of 10.  I have been known to miss the bus once or twice.  I have been on the receiving end of the bus driver's smug look and forced smile as I apologized for making her wait.  In fact, you can read all about one of my parenting misadventures here!  I completely understand being late every once in a while.  Kids can’t find their shoes.  They won’t get out of bed on time.  They forget to wear underwear.  (No?  Just in my household?)  Sh*t happens; I get it.  But 29 times? 
2. This family lives within walking distance of the school.  Here’s a tip: leave the house earlier.  Yes.  It really is that simple.
3. What lesson are you teaching your children when you treat their chronic tardiness as if it is perfectly acceptable?  That when you have a real job and you’re expected to show up on time, the rules don’t apply to you?  Those rules are for other people?  Mark Denicore is a lawyer.  What happens when he is late to court, I wonder.
4. For those who are critical of the school system for spending the time and money on taking the Denicores to court . . . the Denicores forced their hand.  After numerous warnings and lengthy correspondence from Loudoun County schools, the children were still late.  The school system was left with no alternative but to enforce their guidelines.
5. As a former teacher, I can attest to the fact that it is disruptive to the entire class to have students show up late.  It is disrespectful to the teacher and to the other 20-some students who made the effort to be punctual.  Further, I guarantee that teachers and administrators have spent an excessive amount of time on paperwork documenting the Denicores' breach of the rules.  That’s right, folks.  Teaching is more than just making photo-copies and sharpening pencils.  Surprise!
6. Granted, I got all my information from the newspaper, but as far as I can tell, there are NO extenuating circumstances that prevent the Denicores from getting their children to school on time.  Mom’s not sick.   Dad’s not overseas.  It's called laziness.  That's right!  I said it!
7. Yes, getting kids out of the house in the morning can be a lot like nailing jello to the wall, but millions of parents get it done every day.  So can you. 

Dear Denicores, no one is saying you’re bad parents.  I’m sure you love them, feed them, and provide them shelter and other basic needs.  There are children all over the world who would gladly trade their fly-ridden, dehydrated, naked lot in life for the "only less than three hours" of the free education we are fortunate enough to have in this country.  Please give your children’s education the respect it deserves and stop making light of it.  Teach your children to be respectful of time, structure, and basic societal expectations, because eventually they’re going to grow into adults who believe that rules don’t apply to them.  Be forewarned: when one of your offspring parks in the handicapped spot when it is not a necessity simply because rules do not apply to him, I will key his car.  

Thank you for your time,

(hehe.  Get it?!)

Judgy McJudgerson

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 . . .

Are You Sure There's Nothing ELSE I Can Do For You?

You know how Hubby HATES it when I talk about what he considers to be “personal” things?  In order to avoid any discomfort on his part, I’m going to offer some advice to a friend of mine.  You don’t know her.

Ahem.

Dear Friend’s Husband –

Your wife adores you.  Really, she does.  But it annoys her to no end when you call her at 4:56 pm to notify her that you are going to be late to . . . um . . . waterpolo practice.  Yeah, water polo.

"Yes, Dear.  Of course, Dear.
Is there anything else, Dear?"

A purely hypothetical phone conversation:

Friend’s Husband:  Whatcha doing?

Friend:  Getting ready to head out to practice, which begins at 5:30.

Friend’s Husband: Good, because I’m not going to make it to waterpolo practice by 5:30, even though I’m the coach.  So I need you to get our son ready for practice, and then I need you to grab my cleats (for water polo, hehe), my jersey, my shorts, some socks, and my hat.  Then I need you to grab all the equipment from the garage and the tub of balls.  AND (this is my favorite part!) could you get our son there a little early so he can get a few extra minutes of practice?

Friend:  (Loud subtle sigh)  I’ll do my best, but I’ve gotta get the baby up from his nap, change his diaper, get shoes on our middle child (who is a notorious dilly-dallyer,) get cleats on our oldest son, pack your bag of clothes, pack the car with all the equipment, get everyone buckled in (safety first!) and drive 10 minutes to the field.

Friend’s Husband: What’s the big deal?  I thought you said you were heading out. 

Friend:  I’ll get. there. when I get there.

Seriously?  Herding three boys into the car is like trying to nail jello to the wall.  My friend does not need the extra pressure!  By the way, she showed up at the ball field water polo . . . place . . .  at 5:20.  Because she kicks a$$. 

That is all.

Losing a Child

For days I’ve been trying to think of something clever and witty to write about, as I’m hoping to keep up with the blog a little better now that Medium and Large are at school all day.  I’m trying to get Small on a regular nap schedule – mostly because I’m anal and can’t handle it when I don’t have a schedule or a plan.  I hope to be able to write more frequently while he’s napping. 

I could write about Tuesday when we overslept until 6:58, but I still managed to get the boys up to the bus stop by 7:12.  Or I could write about purging my closet of clothes I haven’t worn in years, but which have moved from our townhouse, to Manhattan, to our temporary housing, and finally stopping here in our home.  Or I could put a humorous spin on trying to find a nerdy teenager with no social life so that I can have a babysitter at my beck and call.

The problem is that I keep thinking about Anna Donaldson and her family:

http://vienna.patch.com/articles/blue-ribbons-for-jack

The Donaldson Family, of Vienna, VA lost their 12-year-old son, Jack, in the floods we had last week.

I first heard this story from my former “boss” at JMU, who was a sorority sister to Anna Donaldson.  Then I discovered that, in the it’s-a-small-world department, my across-the-street neighbor was also a sorority sister.  My connection to this woman is six-degrees-of-Kevin-Baconish, but still, her story was brought to my awareness more than once.  Then this morning, a high school friend posted a link to Anna's blog, An Inch of Gray.  I just can’t keep quiet anymore.  So this one’s not funny.

For all the b*tching I sometimes do about mothers who don’t support each other, make other mothers feel bad about their parenting, or try to one-up each other, I must admit that in a time of tragedy, there is a bond between mothers that is almost spiritual.  And I don’t mean spiritual in the religious sense. 

I mean I hope that the heartbreak and grief I feel for this woman whom I have never met will help ease some of her burden, because it pains me to think of her suffering “alone.” 

I know she has a family, and perhaps it seems insensitive for me to imply that NO ONE, not even her husband, feels the grief as tangibly as she does.  I have a notion that collectively, mothers everywhere who are hearing her story are shouldering a bit of her heartbreak. 

When I lost my mother, I remember thinking that I truly understood where the term "broken-hearted" originated.  I literally felt an ache in my heart - a physical pain.  It struck me as surreal that people still went to the grocery store, picked up their mail, filled their cars with gas when my world had fallen apart.  I’ve always said that losing my mother has been the greatest loss of my life, and I am the first to admit that I had a difficult time dealing with my grief.  But here’s the thing: children expect to lose their parents at some point.  Hopefully it won’t be until the parent has lived a full life, but we all accept mortality as the final chapter of life. 

Parents are not emotionally equipped to lose a child.  That’s not how it’s supposed to happen.  

Ten years ago, my girlfriend, The Mormon, lost a child.  Hubby and I hadn’t started our family yet, so while I grieved with my friend, I grieved with her as a friend, not as a mother.  I hurt because my friend was hurting.  It wasn’t until I had Large that I truly understood that having a child is having a part of you live outside your body.  Your child is an appendage that’s not physically attached.  (Sometimes I feel like my kids are the middle finger . . . )

As diligent followers of this blog (hint, hint) you know that I don’t discuss politics or religion.  I believe what I believe, and I don’t need to rationalize it to anyone.  No matter what you believe (or don’t) my simple request is this: pause for just a moment today and send good “Mommy” vibes to Anna Donaldson.  Motherhood is a sorority of its own, and today our Sister needs us. 

*Anna's friend Glennon writes a blog called Momastery.  Her most recent entry, simply called "Anna," is a powerful post in which she reminds us that one doesn't stop being a Mother when your child leaves the earth.

Medium, Small, Large

And finally, my boys.  I LOVE them with every ounce of my being.  They drive me absoultely insane sometimes, but I am thankful every day for their sweet smiles.

Our Family Beach "Vacation"

I use the term “vacation” lightly, because as any mommy knows, “vacationing” with kids is NOT relaxing.  In fact, it is the exact opposite of relaxing and it requires more work than if you had just stayed home.  I use it in the same tongue-in-cheek manner in which I used it the first week the boys were home after school ended in June.  Let me tell you something right now – MY idea of a vacation involves a lot more alcohol and a lot fewer trips through the McDonald’s drive-thru.

Hubby packed his week’s worth of necessities in one small carry-on sized suitcase.  Underwear? Check.  Swim trunks? Check.  Toothbrush? Check.  

And he was done.

I packed for myself and the rest of the family, which was a 4 day venture.  I had to wash and dry all of our clothes so that I’d have plenty from which to choose.  (I have a propensity to spill on my “shelf,” so I always travel with a LOT of white shirts.)  Then I had to bring the giant you-could-fit-a-body-in-there-if-you-had-to suitcase upstairs from the basement. 

I had a list, complete with little boxes to check off because, well, have you MET me? . . .

 

This year, as an added treat, my entire family shared a house at the beach.  It was my dad; my brother Slim and his wife; my brother The Redneck (who did not bring any of his ex-wives, hehe,) and his three children; and my family of five.  Collectively, we traveled from Northern Virginia, West Virginia, and South Carolina.

For those of you who are confused already, the important information to glean from this cast o’ characters is that there was only ONE mommy on duty.  ONE. 

The following is an abbreviated list of the mommy tasks for which I was responsible.  (In all fairness, no one asked me to or made me be the mommy, but I've discovered that "Motherhood" is a reflex that you can’t turn off.)

The Parrot Heads called.
They're looking for
their mascot.

• make sure that six children wear sunscreen.
• make sure that six children shower/bathe after leaving the beach, wash their hair, and use actual soap AND shampoo.
• make sure everyone remembers to wear underwear (this mostly just applies to my Medium, and possibly my dad on one occasion.)
• make sure no one sleeps with the tv on all night.
• make sure all bike riders are wearing helmets.
• remind the children that if a car hits you on the Beach Rd. at 35 miles an hour because you weren’t paying attention, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.  (Your mother, however, MIGHT blame me. . . )
• wash 13 beach towels.  Repeat.
• make children pay me a quarter for every time they utter the words “I’m bored.”  I'm pretty sure this is how we're going to fund their college education.
• make sure no one gets overly tired or overly hungry so we can avoid a meltdown bigger than my a$$ in a swimsuit.
• concede that Mommy made a huge mistake by insisting that the sand isn’t that hot and that we could climb the largest sand dune on the east coast in our bare feet. . . at noon, on a sunny day, in August.  Oops.
• take Small outside the restaurant to burn energy so that the only dinner he ruins is mine.
• keep my introverted brother, Slim, from having a massive head explosion once he is exposed to the chaos that defines my everyday life.
• try to convince The Redneck that unless you’re Jimmy Buffet, you need not be fixin’ to wear that Hawaiian shirt.
• make sure that when a group leaves the house, the same number of children who left is the same number of children who return.
• talk Hubby down from the ledge after he tells Medium, who is dying of thirst, (I know this because of the incessant repetition of “I’m sooooo thirsty” and the dramatic collapse into the sand.  I’m quite perceptive,) that “you’ll never drink water again.  No more water for you!  Ever!”  The short-tempered apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, folks.
• make sure that, while it is common practice to pee in the ocean, (oh stop it, you know you do it too,) that one does not poop in the ocean.  For that, we walk back to the house.
• make sure no one drowns.  At least not on my watch.
• wash swimsuits for those attendees who packed only one swimsuit for 7 days at the beach.
• make sure no one in our party looks directly at my dad’s legs lest they risk blindness, since his gams clearly haven’t seen the sun since the last time he was in the Outer Banks in 1975.  This is also known as the last time I wore a bikini.
• make sure that Small’s ingestion of sand is minimal, even though his daytime diet consists mostly of sand-covered apple slices, sand-covered grapes, sand-covered goldfish, and a sand-covered sippy.

At one point I wiped out in a giant wave, and I crashed directly into my 69-year-old father.  Once I made sure he was still standing, breathing, and had a normal pulse, the only thing I could think of to say was “that’s a whole lotta woman comin’ atcha, isn’t it, Dad?”

We had a great time, but I am so glad to be home.  I had about all the family togetherness I can stand.

Yep, he dressed himself.
You gotta pick your battles.

High School Reunion: Part 1

Holy Hangover, Batman!  I am officially too old to party. 

My 20^th high school reunion was this past weekend.  I know what you’re thinking . . . “but BoyMommy, you look WAY too young to have been out of high school for 20 years.”  But, alas, it is true; two decades have passed since I last walked the halls of my high school.

I dropped Small off at my brother Slim’s house, essentially so his new bride could take care of my offspring.  As is the case ANY time I try to treat myself to a night of drinking and general debauchery, the Mommy Guilt is thrown in my face; Small got stung twice by bees, so my SIL called to ask what she could do and to reassure me that all was well.  She kept apologizing, and I kept telling her that sh*t happens.  Mother of the Year . . . again!  I worried about him until that first beer kicked in.  Then I was okay.

My adventure began at the swanky digs known as the Olde Towne Inn.  It’s very fancy.  I know it’s fancy because of all the E’s. 

 The motel was not bad.  You get what you pay for, right?  I’m anxious to see the credit card bill so I can determine whether I was charged for the entire night or I was charged by the hour.  

My first task was to remove the comforter from the bed.  I usually travel with my own blanket so I don’t have to use the hotel blankets, but in my haste to escape my house get to the motel, I forgot it.  I called the front desk and asked for an extra blanket.

I did not ask for exotic truffles or fine caviar.  Just a blanket, thanks.

“Ooooh,” the front desk manager replied.  “I’m not sure I have a key to the Maid’s Closet.”

I was a little surprised that the Maid’s Closet was ensconced in such heavy security, but whatevs.

“What do you need a blanket for anyway in this kinda weather?” she asked accusingly. 

Did she think I was trying to swindle the hotel out of money and that I was harboring unaccounted-for guests? 

Incredulous, I replied, “It’s really none of your business why I am requesting an extra blanket.  I am a paying customer and my wishes come first, regardless of your personal opinion about my sleeping habits.  If you must know, I do not want your semen-encrusted bedspread anywhere near my face because I have watched one too many Dateline NBC episodes.  Furthermore, I’m afraid a black light would reveal “evidence” that would support my claim that the communal bedspread at the Olde Towne Inn has not been cleaned recently and therefore belongs nowhere near the vicinity of my face.”

Except it came out more like, “Um, I just like an extra blanket when I’m sleeping.” 

I mean no disrespect to the Olde Towne Inn, because it served its purpose . . . which was mainly be-close-to-the-bar-so-I-can-party-like-it’s-1991. 

I do, however, have photo evidence of what a fine establishment it is.

To Be Continued . . .

(It was Reunion Weekend and I haven’t even gotten out of the hotel yet.)