"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.

Workin' for the Weekend

Hubby just returned from a seven day business trip to India.   Since I am the primary caretaker here at home (the CEO of the BoyMommy Household, if you will . . . ) things aren't THAT different when he's gone, but knowing he's on the other side of the world and that I will not have reinforcements is a bit disconcerting.  Again, I give a humble shout-out to single moms and military wives everywhere.  

I took the boys to visit their grandparents, who live 3 hours away (and whose visit requires a stint on Interstate 95, grrrrrr,) and rushed back home on Sunday only to find out that baseball practice was cancelled.  Then school was cancelled on Monday because WINTER WILL NOT END.  EVER.  Then I had Small home with me all day Tuesday because when the public schools have a two-hour-delay, Small doesn’t have preschool at all.  During that week I also fit in a museum visit, a pediatric "well" visit, and an allergist appointment which required a prescription pick-up at the grocery store.  Of course the medicine was unavailable so I had to return to the grocery store the next day with all three of the boys . .. my absolute favorite thing in the world to do, right after bathing suit shopping and toilet plunging.

Luckily I have a girls’ weekend to look forward to, and it’s happening in 2 days!  Hubby asked where we’re going. . .

“I don't know.  Wintergreen, I think?  Or Massanutten.  I don’t know.  Someplace,” I responded, providing about as much information as he had going IN to this conversation.  I had said all along that we could go to the Super 8 on Route 1 for all I care, so really, location is arbitrary.

“When are you leaving?” he asked.  A logical question, since he will be in charge of our offspring in my absence.

Hmmm.  I shrugged.  “I’m not really sure.  Friday sometime.  3?”

Frustrated, he asked, “do you know anything?  You don’t know where you’re going or when you’re getting there.”

“I know I’m gettin’ the hell outta Dodge,” I answered. 

I NEED this weekend.  I just need a little break . . . a refresher weekend in which I can take a deep breath and regroup. 

“What are you going to do?” he asked, and I know the response he wanted was something along the lines of braid each other’s hair, make prank phone calls, and then have a pillow fight in our skivvies. 

Alas. . . “drink beer and sleep.”  The girls have already planned for adequate beer consumption, and I have notified them that if anyone wakes me at 6 AM, I will “scratch your eyeballs out with my own hands.”  I think I made my point.

I understand Hubby's concern, of course.  'Member in college, when you'd be hungover on Saturday morning, but ready to go again on Saturday night?  Not so much any more.  Now I can have two glasses of wine on a Friday night and have a headache all day Saturday, OR I can have one martini and be home and in bed by 10:30.  

Funny (well, funny NOW) story:  I went on a girls' weekend years ago, on which I had a tad too much to drink.  There was karaoke.  I can't help myself when I'm belting out Dolly Parton tunes.  When we got home from the bar, I promptly relieved my stomach of all of its contents.  I was a bit lacking in the coordination department, however.  I leaned my head forward over the bowl of the toilet just as the seat was coming down, which led to an unfortunate bruise in the middle of my forehead.  On Monday morning, I had to lie about how I got the bruise because I couldn't tell a class full of high school seniors the truth.  

Man, that was a fun weekend.

Ugh. I'm going back to bed.

The Needy McNeedersons are at it again.  Within the first half hour of being awake this morning:

• I'm hungry.
• Help me put these in the bag.
• Have you seen my wallet?
• Where's my cell project?
  

• Who drank all these beers?
• Can you put the straw in my juice box?
• I can't get the tv to work!
• I need you to update this baseball roster.
• Remember?  From the Lego Movie?
• Can you read me a book?
• Can I watch another Scooby?
• What did you do with the other bag?
• I'm thirsty.
• Can Michael and I have a sleepover?
• Watch this!
• Look!  I took your picture while you were sleeping.  

  

  Here.  I brought you batteries.
  Now do it!  Do it now!

• Can I play outside?
• Where's the remote?
• Whose underwear is this?
• I need the tunnel!
• It's Talking Tom. . . .
• The red car's not going fast enough . . . can you put some more batteries in?
• Come look at my cytoplasm!

I'm going back to bed.  Y'all can fend for yourselves.

The Value of the Dollar

Medium broke my computer.  Lucky for him,  I've done some research, and I think it's going to be a quick fix.  (For the sake of his survival, I certainly hope so since his daddy is reading about it here for the first time.)  It still works, just not to its full capacity.

I don't think Medium understands the value of a dollar.  He certainly doesn't understand the value of $3,000, which is about how much it would cost to replace my computer.

Or, I should say, he didn't understand it:

He does now.

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

Large is headed to his tour of the middle school today.  I’m not ready.  It makes my stomach hurt to think of my baby going to middle school . . . partly because I want him to remain my little boy, and partly because I remember what a freak show middle school was.

I was so awkward.  My jeans were always too short because I was growing faster than my mom wanted to go jeans shopping.  I had braces … and a haircut that could only be deemed “unfortunate” … and hairy legs because my mom wouldn’t let me shave them.  And the hormones.  Dear God, the hormones!  It was not a good time in my life. 

I don't mean to brag, but I was a size 0.  For about two weeks in 1986.

Anyhoo, this is the conversation Large and I had this morning:

Large:  I have my middle school tour today!

Me:  It makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it.  (It will be important for him to tell his future therapist that he felt guilty for growing up because of how it made his mother feel.  Totally healthy.)

Large:  Why?  I’m excited!

Me:  I want you to stay my baby forever!  I want you to stay in elementary school!

Large:  Mooooom.  I’m gonna go to college.  And meet a pretty girl.  And buy a house with her.  And have kids with her.

Me:  (look of panic.)

Large:  But Medium will still live with you.

Remind me of this conversation in 20 years when my 30-year-old middle child is living in my basement. 

It's Not Crazy if You're a Mommy

In a conversation with some fellow mommies the other day, we started discussing the importance of a child’s lovey.

You know, those stuffed animals or blankets or other unseemly-looking mementos that they cannot live without?  

They never choose to love on the item that Mom and Dad think would be just adorable – instead it’s usually some gift they received from an obscure relative or that colleague that no one really likes anyway.  The choice is completely random.

Large has a blue blanket that was part of a matching set of baseball-themed clothes and accoutrements that we got when he was first born, almost 11 years ago.  His Daddy bought the entire set because, since Large was our first child, naturally everything had to be matchy-matchy. 

(One of the many differences between the first child and the third child . . . At 3-years-old, Large was dressed in an outfit that was purchased as a set at Gymboree; I never would have let Large leave the house in the following ensemble.  With Small, I'm just happy if he's wearing pants.)

The innate problem with Large's lovey was that A: he had to have it with him at all times and B: since he always had it with him, chances of him losing it increased exponentially.

See where I’m going with this?

So here's our story:  We arrived at LaGuardia airport after trip to the DC area.  We disembarked, loaded Large into the stroller with all our carry-ons, and began our trek through the terminal.  Suddenly I realized that Large did not have his blue baseball blanket, but I knew he had had it on the flight.

“We have to go back!” I panicked, but Hubby was frustrated/grouchy/indignant/annoyed concerned that we would never find it again.  I insisted, “we have to try!”

I ran back towards the gate and found a flight attendant.  I’m sure it had been a long day of shuttling back and forth between New York and Washington, DC,  and she was exhausted, but I appealed to her maternal understanding.  Obviously annoyed, either at our forgetfulness or our indulgence of our son’s every whim, she reluctantly descended the ramp in order to look in our seat for the blanket.  I crossed my fingers and waited. 

No luck.

“I’m sorry.  It wasn’t there,” she replied.

I had a decision to make.  Do I shrug my shoulders, thank her for doing her best, and face my boy’s disappointment and inablity to fall asleep?  Or do I get all scary-Mommy, fortheloveofgod, dear woman git-yer-@ss-back-on-that-plane and find that lovey!

Guess which one I opted for?

I pulled out the big bat-sh*t crazy guns.  “Please!  You don’t understand!  This is THE blanket!  The one he HAS to have!  He’ll never fall asleep.  EVER.  AGAIN.  I’m begging you to look just one more time.  Or let ME look.  That’s it . . .  Let me back on the plane!  I’ll find it!”

This was post-9/11, so even though a misplaced lovey was indeed a matter of national security and warranted a mad-dash of summer-blockbuster-movie-starring-Will-Smith proportions, she disagreed. 

Huh.

I’m sure, somewhere throughout this process, a subtle call to security was made.  She agreed to look one more time, but assured me it was not on the plane.

I waited patiently.  Okay, so probably not patiently, but I waited like a good law-abiding citizen. 

As if in slow motion, I watched her climb the ramp one last time.  I swear I heard Celebration by Kool & the Gang.  She was holding the blanket.  That blue, ratty, disgusting, booger-encrusted blanket.

“It was stuffed in between the seats,” she smiled.  I hugged her and told her she was my hero.  It’s possible I even shed a tear.  I will be grateful to that flight attendant forever for her willingness to look just once more even though she was convinced I was CrAzY.  

Sometimes it's best to just humor me and do it my way.