One of Those Days

Finally home. Monday’s trip was…an emotion suck of vast proportions which was pretty much in keeping with my 26 days in Arizona. Par for the course, as they say.

I’d like to publicly thank the gentleman at the Southwest curbside check in, who made it so easy and painless to check four large, heavy suitcases and a carseat onto our flight, and who not only took care of my luggage, but also printed out the family’s boarding passes while we waited. In times like these I’m more than happy to tip way more than humanly necessary just to easy a little of my travel burden. And he did it without rolling his eyes at the weight of all my suitcases or asking me if I was moving.

We arrived at the airport at 5:30 am AZ time, and proceeded to the first Paradise Bakery I found to load everyone up on carbs and caffeine. (Well, the caffeine was for me.) The first flight was booked solid, and while I was in the B boarding group for Southwest, it proved not very helpful. They board the families with small children between the A and B boarding groups which is usually just fine because I always seem to be one of the few idiotic mothers who travels alone with three children, allowing me a queen like status as I waltz past the other ‘normal’ travelers with my children, backpacks, food bags, and a stroller following along behind me like Pig Pen’s cloud. It’s a proud moment.

Monday’s flight to Baltimore however was loaded down with so many families that it looked strangely reminiscent of a Little People’s Convention, the little people here being children under the age of 10 and not people of short stature. I was so caught off guard at not being the only mom with kids that I didn’t get in line when I should have and ended up at the very back of the proliferating-adults-accompanied-by-fruits-of-their-womb line.

A quick glance around the plane as we boarded confirmed what I feared; all the families before me scored the connecting seats, while every other ‘normal’ traveler coveted the isle seats, leaving me bits and pieces to choose from on where to place my kids. I did consider sprinkling them throughout the plane in the center seats just to be pissy and sit alone at the back of the plane where I might possibly be able to shut my eyes for a second, or throw back a nip or two of Dewars scotch, but I felt that people might complain. I kindly said to the male Southwest flight attendant:

“Excuse me, Could you please help me find a row together so I can sit with my kids?”

At which he replied without looking at me:

“All the seats together are in the back,” and then dismissed me. It doesn’t take a degree in engineering to notice that there were no empty rows, having all been dotted with isle-seat sitters and a few window grabbers, leaving me slim pickins. Now I’m slightly agitated, which is unfortunate for the two gentlemen I spoke to next.

I spotted two rows where the window and middle seats were open, whilst two isle-squatting gentlemen sat trying to avoid my gaze.

“Excuse me gentlemen,” I voiced loudly, which forced them to acknowledge me. “Are those seats taken?”

They each shook their heads as fear and terror crept into their eyes as they realized what I was going to do.

“Thank you! Kid #1 and Kid #2, you sit here. Sit now. Put your backpacks under your seat. Buckle up. Do it. Do it now. Thank you.” I command while shoving them into a row next to one man. The baby and I slid past the other guy right behind my older two, situated ourselves and prepared for the flight.

This seating arrangement unnerved my middle daughter who feels anxious sitting next to “strangers” and who whispered between the seats to me the whole flight, “Please mom. Please can I come sit with you?” I assured her she was fine and to take up any anger she may have with the male flight attendant who refused to help us.

Flight was going along swimmingly, until we hit a patch of turbulence. It’s important to note that among my many idiosyncrasies and neuroses is a fear of turbulence- something that I’m always sure will result in a wing breaking off sending the plane plummeting to the ground and I’ll have exactly 2.5 minutes of ensuing horror while I wait for darkness to come and for my guardian angel to reveal him or herself. I pray mightily for no turbulence and generally when we fly the flights are smooth and I’m relatively peaceful, but the second that first bump comes, I’m white knuckle gripping the seat in front of me and saying a rosary. It’s a fear so intense that I’m trying to make deals with God and myself, like, “I’ll lick a toilet seat. I’ll eat my food off the floor. I’ll overcome ALL my other fears. PLEASE PLEASE JUST LET THE TURBULENCE END!” While the plane is bump, bump, bumping along my older two are looking back at me, saying things like, “Mom! Isn’t this fun! It’s like a fair ride! Whoooooo, Wheeeeee!!” and waving their hands in the air like a roller coaster at Disneyland. Then we hit an air pocket and the plane falls a bit which means that all the passengers on the plane let out the unconscious gasp and whoo, and the guy sitting with my kids looks back at me, as if to say, “What do you want me to do about this,” and I shoot him a “good luck take care of my kids I hope you’re a nice man” look right back at him. Serves him right, that isle-squatter.

But I manage to keep it together, not cry or vomit, which is pretty good considering that I’m about ready to morph into a panic attack and there’s nobody who will hold my hand or tell me we aren’t going to die. My husband comes in handy in times like these. I think of how he’ll feel living without us. Would he keep living in Massachusetts? Move back to Arizona? Become so overwrought with grief that he drinks too much, loses his job, and starts living on the street? Imagining life without me would be devastating I’m sure of it. Oh, and the kids too of course.

We finally land in Baltimore, me praying in tongues of thanksgiving like an old Jewish woman speaking Yiddish. The Baltimore tarmac was a beautiful, beautiful sight. And the flight was even early. Yippee.

It’s 1:15 p.m. Our next flight is scheduled to take off at 3:20, which gives me almost two hours to feed my offspring, start breathing, and mentally gear up for getting on another plane. Which is when I look out the window at the runway.

The sky is grey and oddly silent, but what unnerves me a bit is the low-lying black clouds that are moving towards the window directly over the airport. I’ve seen my share of dark rain clouds, but these are spooky clouds and they’re black. In a matter of moment as we sit watching the runway, the clouds move over us, the rain begins to plummet and there’s lightning. Not high-in-the-sky lightening like someone’s flicking the light switch on and off, but bolts of lightning. Single bolts of bright lightning and they are actually striking the ground.

I’m thinking this is a bad time to be on a plane. To expedite the narrative of the next few hours, I’ll highlight the important events in bullets:

• They closed the runways. Any lightning strike within a three-mile radius automatically closes the runways and all activity outside. Trucks pull in. Baggage handlers scatter. Silently I’m breathing a little easier since I’m inside on terra firma and not stuck in a plane trying to take off.
• The aircraft for our flight is circling in the sky above the storm waiting for the green light to land.
• The storm passes briefly allowing a few planes to take off and land. Our flight is not one of them.
• The storm picks up force and there are more lightning strikes, which closes the airport again. Our flight has been circling too long and is now forced to land in Norfolk, Va. Three other flights are also diverted because they had been circling too long.
• At 5:00 p.m. our flight still hasn’t left Norfolk, VA but the airport is open and the 5:55 flight to Boston is scheduled to be on-time. I put our names on the stand-by list figuring it’s a fat chance in hell, but at least it’s an option.
• At 5:15 the Southwest gate attendant announces for stand-by passengers to come see her at the desk. While I’m waiting to talk to her, she also announces that our Providence flight has left Norfolk, and should be arriving around 6:45 and they’ll get everyone on board and shipped off as quickly as possible. What to do? Take the Boston flight that is boarding now, or wait for another hour for the Providence flight and hope nothing else goes wrong?
• I took the one bird in my hand instead of the two in the bush, and yelled at the kids to gather their belongings; we were shipping out to Boston. Even if it meant that all our luggage would still end up in Providence. I needed to be home and free of this day.
• We board the plane; me sticking my children in a row together, while I sat across the isle from them by myself. It was actually a beautiful set up.

It’s 6:10. The plane hasn’t started its taxi yet. I’m wondering what’s up when a flight attendant comes on the PA system and says,
“Hello ladies and gentlemen. Our co-pilot just got here, and well… he noticed that one of the tires on the plane is flat. So it’ll be just a minute as we jack-up the plane and change that tire. Thanks for your patience folks.”

I’m sorry. Did he just say the plane has a flat tire? And that it went unnoticed by all the ground crew? And that our co-pilot, before taxiing, noticed that it needed to be changed?

I really have a problem with this kind of honesty. After my turbulence in the sky and averting the electrical storm in a big flying piece of metal, I now am wondering if when we try to take off or land a tire is going to blow, causing the plane to spin out of control and end up in a firey heap alongside the tarmac. I would have preferred a lie like, “Well ladies and gentlemen, we’re almost ready to take off, but the pilot needs to finish his last box of Suduko. He’s almost figured out where those last numbers go, and then we’ll be off towards your destination. Everything is perfectly fine. There are nooooo problems with the aircraft at all. It’s just that pilot Jim has such an attention to detail he must finish this puzzle so he can concentrate on flying the plane with the same amount of precision and focus. Thanks so much for your patience.” That’s an excuse I could embrace.

We landed in Boston around 8 p.m. safely with no additional blowing of tires. After sucking down a glass of wine on the plane I was feeling a little better. The sight of my husband after 26 days was a little bit like seeing him waiting for me at the altar; only this time not only were there tears of love, but exhaustion and anxious release as well. And the knowledge that I’m no longer the only parent for these three kids.

The good news about having all our luggage go to Providence was that we were able to head straight to the van for home. Once again, not only am I glad to be home, but I’m also glad that I don’t travel like that more than once a year. At my old age, my mediocre emotions can barely handle it. 

Good Bye Arizona. I’m sorry we stayed so damned long.

We leave for home tomorrow. It’s safe to say the kids and I are ready to be in our own beds. It’s been a good trip, don’t get me wrong. We weren’t abused in any way. We didn’t stay in a filthy, germ ridden hotel. We didn’t fall on any cactus or get stung by scorpions. We were able to see many old friends and most importantly, spend a lot of time with family. A lot. Of time.

Here are some Arizona trip statistics for you:

We stayed in Chandler for 26 days. That’s 624 hours or 37,440 minutes or 2,246,400 seconds, not that I was counting. 98% of that time we were hot. (The other 2% we were in Flagstaff just feeling warmish.) It rained a total of 5 minutes, which equates to .000133547% of the time. That’s so insignificant it’s like it didn’t really happen. Now that I think about it, maybe those drips were a figment of my very hot and tired imagination yearning for home.

We didn’t really intend to stay this long, it’s just when my husband happened to purchase the tickets. He saw the cheaper price and hit the “book now” button and realized a little late that it meant we’d be gone for almost a month. Oops. But we’ve made the best of it, even if this 26 day trip was about 16 days too long. How do I know we’ve stayed too long? Well, let me tell you:

10 Signs That You’ve Been On Vacation Too Long

10. The kids cry when you tell them there are 5 more days until you leave for home.

9. Your children start crying when you talk about Daddy and ask why he can’t come here.

8. The kid’s grandparents start conversations off with, “You know, your mother and I were thinking how nice it would be if each one of your kids came out separately for a week at a time next summer. It would really allow us to get to know them better.”

7. The kids start reminiscing about even the bad memories of home. As my middle daughter said to me, “Mom, I miss waking up at home and asking you to make chocolate chip pancakes and you saying no.” Thank God she hasn’t started waxing poetic about the yelling yet.

6. You check to see if you can change your reservations to an earlier flight home.

5. You are surprised to find that changing your tickets would only be $350.00 and it doesn’t sound like a bad price.

4. The kids cry when you tell them that you leave for home the day after tomorrow, with the youngest responding, “But I want to go home NOW.”

3. Every day the kids ask to call their friends in Massachusetts at least twice.

2. I start thinking that if I didn’t see any family or any of my children for 24 hours, it’d be the best 24 hours of my entire life.

1. Everyone starts feeling not only annoyed, but angry that every single room in the house contains a person who is doing something, leaving absolutely no place for alone time. And it’s too hot to take a walk even at 9:30 at night.

Don’t get me wrong, we did have a good time. And for the rest of July I’ll be blogging everyday about the trip, the things we did, events we witnessed, and things that made me laugh. Best of all we spent time with family; parents, sisters, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, friends, and grandparents. That part was worth it. I’m pretty sure I could see all those people in a two-week span however. That saying that fish and company both stink after three days wasn’t entirely incorrect. This stinky fish and her three loud, complaining minnows are swimming upstream toward home.

We can’t wait. 

Arizona Pros and Cons

I’ll cut to the chase and just start off by asking you to forgive me for not posting in 10 days. I understand that it’s a really long time and you have all come to rely on me for your only source of humor and levity in this crazy busy (sometimes not-too-nice) world. I’m right about at the middle of my “vacation” here in Arizona, the term vacation being used rather loosely. Vacations bring to mind reading piles of books by the pool, sipping frozen girly drinks through pineapple shaped straws, sleeping in, and having people serve you (or at least ordering food out) a majority of the time. While I have had some time by the pool, and I do admit to sucking down a pina colada in my sister-in-law’s fab personal fully stocked bar, the majority of my time has been pretty scheduled, packed full, and ordered according to priority: 1) spend time with grandparents as much as possible 2) spend time with sisters/parents/nieces & nephews as much as possible, and 3) see friends. That’s the honest truth of it, because who knows what tomorrow is going to bring or when I’ll be coming back to the valley and under what circumstances. I’m trying to Carpe Diem. Even though right now the thought of getting hit by a bus sounds really good, if only for the fact that I could sleep in a bed for about a week. It’d have to be a mini bus of course.

While I’m here I figured I’ve give you a little list of the benefits and drawbacks of Arizona through my eyes, and while I generally tend to regard Arizona with some dislike, there are some benefits that I’m reminded of now that I’m here. In no particular order, here you are:

Pros of AZ in June

1. No mosquitos. Ever. Not enough water for much of anything to live on, especially flying insects.

2. Warm summer evenings not requiring even a light jacket.

3. Beautiful sunsets.

4. They sell liquor in the grocery stores. I forgot how much I love one stop shopping.

5. More than two choices of restaurants to eat at.                            

6. Sweet Tomatoes restaurant. A soup, salad, bread, and pasta bar that the East Coast really needs to try to incorporate.

7. Family.

8. Grandparents. I know they are technically family, but they deserve their own line.

9. Wildflower Café iced tea.

10. Good Mexican food twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

11. Shopping with my mom and sisters.

12. Being able to go to a mall that isn’t 30 minutes away.

13. Driving my parents Highlander, which I LOVE.

14. Having all three kids spend an entire weekend with my sister-in-law.

15. More than one place to get ice cream.

16. Spending time in Flagstaff.

Cons about AZ in June

1. Sewer roaches. Although I must admit I haven’t seen that many, thank God.

2. The possibility of scorpions in the house.

3. Swoobies. That’s slang for “sweaty boobies” for those who don’t know. While I’d love to take credit for this fabulous wordsmithing, I must give credit to my friend Liz for using it. Unfortunately, it’s so hot here that you get swoobies on your way out the door.

4. It’s hotter than shit. Which I said to my grandmother today right before I took her home today and we were both melting in the blasted car. It made her laugh pretty hard, so chalk one up for swearing in front of grandma. She agreed, by the way.

5. Everything is brown. Everything. Landscaping, walls, houses, buildings, pool decking, dirt, sand, horizon,   you name it. Life here is beige.

6. Burning your feet if you forget to wear shoes outside. Think it’ll take you “just a second” to get your mail so you forgo the shoes? Fine. Sign up for some foot skin grafts after you hobble back to the house.

7. Hectic pace to life.

8. No farmstands.

9. No rain. I’ve been here 10 days and not only has there not been even one tiny drop of rain, but there are also no clouds in the sky and no forecast for rain anytime soon.

10. It’s hotter than shit. Have I mentioned that yet?

11. Because it’s so warm here, my morning coffee has lost it’s appeal. I’m back to craving iced tea instead, which is no doubt much better for my arse.

12. Dry skin. If the heat wasn’t enough to suck the moisture right from your pores, adding pool chlorine to the mix nails the coffin shut. I’m pretty sure that as we walk we leave a trail of human shaped skin carcasses behind us.

13. Sunburn. Not that you can’t get sunburned in MA, but you usually don’t get one walking to the car or getting the newspaper from the driveway.

14. Swarse. Or swotch. Take your pick. Similar to sweaty boobies, but with your southern hemisphere. This usually causes your underwear to stick to places it’s not supposed to stick to.

15. It’s not home. Even though I fully realize that when I get home the novelty of it will wear off about 5 hours after walking through the door and I’ll be back to missing my family.

There you have it ladies and gentlemen. An little pro and con action for those who may be considering relocating to this fabulously sunny state. Sure you can get ice cream on almost every block, but you’ll pay in swoobies and swotch. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Excuses

It’s currently 12:30 p.m. I have exactly one hour to write this blog before I pick up my children from school and our dear neighbor drives us to the airport to catch our 4:45 flight to Phoenix. That is of course, if my youngest stays glued to the TV and doesn’t need anything, whine, or have to pee while I write this. I figure I owe you some explanation of why I dropped off the planet, but if you’re even half as mediocre as me and you have children nearing the end of school, you probably haven’t had time to read my blog anyway. We’ve almost hit the finish line for the end of the year dash, and quite honestly, I’m out of breath.

Top 10 Reasons I Haven’t Blogged Lately

10. I volunteered at Field Day.

Field Day is an enormous event that includes the entire 3^rd, 4^th, and 5^th grade participating in events from field sports to face painting, free lemonade slushes, and bouncy obstacle courses. Parent Volunteers (read parents trying to get in their “school time” with the kids before school lets out) run and organize all the events. I traded a friend for face painting, which I have to say, I’m fairly good at, assuming that you have good paints to work with. Which I didn’t. I think it may have been easier to use Elmers glue, food coloring, and a stick than the paints I was given, but whatever. Next time I’ll just wear a shirt that says, “I don’t suck, the paints do.” Highlights from the event: It was really cold. I had my youngest with me in a tiny tank top and no sweatshirt. Thankfully, due to the amount of crap in our van, someone left a blanket. My youngest was no longer purple, but I was. Another interesting point is that there was one bathroom with two stalls. There were approximately 250 little girls sucking down lemonade slushes like water in the Sahara, and get this…NO LINE in the bathroom. Not one little girl was waiting to go pee. That has to be a statistical anomaly and made me realize I need to frequent events with more young children, and less with grown women who have bladder incontinence. In fact, the only person I passed on my way out was, you guessed it, another mom. Freaky.

9. I had to take my daughter to Karate later that evening and instead of blogging in the car like I occasionally do I, I worked on an essay for an on line class I’m taking.

8. I’m three lessons and four revisions behind in my essay class.

(I’m currently fighting with my three year old because she sniffed out my carbon dioxide like a mosquito and is now BOTHERING ME. Gotta get to 10, gotta get to 10….)

7. I took three kids and walked in the Relay for Life in Mansfield, MA.

This is the third year I’ve walked with a group called “Playgroup Pals,” in the Relay for Life to raise funds for the American Cancer Society. Oddly enough, this group of women had a playgroup many years ago when our children were small and we had time to do fun things, like play together. Our team raised over $5300 (I think) which is a pretty good job all in all. The kids even walked thanks to one of the moms and her idea to use bracelent reinforcements, with the kids earning one plastic foot charm for each lap walked. The two kids who walked the most laps could win a $10 gift certificate to Target. You have never seen my children walk harder and faster than trying to earn 10 bucks to Target. Neither ended up winning, but a good time was had by all. We made it home around 11 p.m. and

 my calves and thighs have ached ever since. I’m pretty sure that means I’m out of shape or something.

6. I’ve been trying to prep the garden for my trip.

There are sooo many things to do with that garden, namely pull weeds and stake the peas and tomatoes, thin the corn and green beans and fill in the potato patch. Don’t you worry, I’ve left a long to-do list for my husband so that when he returns from Phoenix and has three weeks all to himself, he doesn’t get lonely or bored because of all the chores I’ve kindly asked him to do. In fact, even this morning I was out in the garden begging the food not to die while I’m gone. Pretty, pretty please.

5. I’ve been making a garden to-do list for my husband while I’m gone.

It’s taken quite a bit of time. It’s a long list.

4. My husband and I got a babysitter and actually went out on a date.

This was to celebrate his new job, even though he’s going on week four. The girl? Young woman? that used to babysit for us is now back from college so she came to sit for the kids while hubby and I drove out to Sudbury and ate at Bullfinches. Always great food, great drinks, great service. Not inexpensive, but worth the occasional splurge. It’s also always a good idea to have a date night and pay for a babysitter right before you go on a long vacation, have many things to do, and plan on forking over a pretty penny for the next four weeks. We so live on the edge.

3. I’ve been cleaning the house like I’m never coming back to it.

While I’m excited about our trip to Phoenix, one thing has me a little stressed. We have company coming to stay with us a day before I get back with the kids. Yep, that’s right, my husband will now have to make sure the house is clean and the toilet isn’t pee speckled when they arrive. I’ve done my best to make sure the guest room and downstairs are good to go, but there will be last minute things he’ll still have to do: a basic dusting and making sure that the little spiders that live in all corners of our house have been booted out. The sheets are clean. The floors are clean (at least in the guest room). Don’t worry, I’ve left a list of household to-do chores for my better half as well. The good news is that our guests are very gracious people and will not judge us based on how our house looks (or at least that I’ll ever find out about) but still, you hope to make a good impression, if for no other reason than maybe two more people will think you don’t live in filth and squalor. It’s an illusion, I know. But don’t tell them.  

2. I’ve been making a to-do list of household chores for my husband.

1. I’ve been doing laundry for five days and there is still crap in the hampers.

The last time I washed this many loads of laundry in consecutive cycles was when we were dealing with the “L” word. I can’t even type it outloud, lest those little buggars hear me and attach themselves to my children’s heads again. I’ve washed clothes. I’ve washed bedding. I’ve changed sheets, because I can’t remember the last time I changed the sheets and four weeks seems like a long time to let those delicious smells lay in the beds. I’ve washed jackets and scarves that go in the attic, I’ve washed towels and bath mats and blankets. In addition to all the washing, I packed the suitcases with all the clean clothes. I mention this because I had actually contemplated packing dirty clothes and just washing them when I got to my parent’s house, but that felt a little user-ish. Not that I’m above using my parents occasionally, but not right at the beginning of the trip. I’ll give it a couple days.

It’s 1:17 now and my daughter has arrived (again) to climb on my back while I finish this up. It’s my intention to blog while I’m on vacation, but it probably won’t be every day and maybe not even every other day. But I’ll still be here so tune in occasionally to see how my trip is going. Triple digit heat and three kids for four weeks should provide me with lots to talk about. 

It’s Van-Tastic

Today I started my morning off with a list of things I’d like to accomplish. I then proceeded to walk outside and start cleaning out my van which wasn’t even on the list. The catalyst for my decision was the fact that my van had started to smell like rotten milk. I’m past the stage of hidden baby bottles, but I am not past the stage of the Go-Gurt. My children cannot get into the van without grabbing one in their pre-trip ritual: go to the bathroom, grab your shoes, get a yogurt. Thank the heavens that Yoplait invented little tubes of dairy product, just perfect for busy families on the go. But now my vehicle is littered with (mostly) eaten yogurt casings. And the tiny little tip the kids rip off while opening the tube. In fact, I put this heinous chore off as long as I can and for good reason. If my family was stranded in New York City, in temperatures of 110 degrees, and a cab pulled up with an interior that looked and smelled like my van, I'd shove the kids out of the way, slam the door, and say, "No thanks, we'll walk." But since it's crap from children I know, while still gross, it's oddly acceptable even for my germ-a-phobic nature. But my van smelled. I could ignore it no longer.

I’m sure all of you have seen the You Tube clip, “Mom My Ride,” but if you’ve been living under a rock and haven’t seen it, you really need to watch it. I wish like hell I had been the one who thought of putting this together, but alas, I wasn’t. However, it is pretty much exactly what my van looks like and was what I was dealing with this morning when I decided to actually clean my vehicle.



Step One: Crap Removal

This is what I unloaded from the van today, although it was much worse a few days ago, when trying to find one of my children, I had to remove some trash from the floor. So while my trash bag is not nearly as full as it should have been, I did remove enough items to require four trips to the house to carry things in. While taking this photo I thought it would be a neat idea to put together some “I SPY Van Crap” fun.

I spy a bucket and a spool of thread,
I spy a hat for wearing on your head.
I spy a water bottle, phthalate free,
I spy an orange cup and pink pony.

I spy a rain slicker and bag of clothes,
I spy tissues for a snotty nose.
I spy sunglasses and a foil pan,
I spy some socks and a stained hot pad.

I spy a canning jar and a striped sun hat,
I spy two baseballs that you’d hit with a bat,
I spy a table cloth white and green,
I spy a bag of trash just for me!

Perhaps I’ll sell this photo to the I Spy book people. Maybe I could make a buck or two. (I also took a picture of the contents of my purse which I emptied out the other day as well. I’ll be doing another post on purse crap, with more I SPY fun to come.)

Step 2: Department of the Interior

Once the crap is removed, it’s off to grab the vacuum with the super suction. I admit that I didn’t do a stellar job with the floors; I just vacuumed over the floor pads without removing them. Upon first glance at this photo you might think that I have some groovy, retro tie-dyed carpeting in there, but alas, it’s fabulously stained from coffee spillage, sodas that leaked after the waxy bottom of the cup disintegrated, and other assorted liquids one might carry in the van. I don’t kill myself trying to suck up every last rock and crumble because I live with stains like these, and really, the bitty grit on the floors makes the stains less noticeable. I do however vacuum all the seats, especially the ones in the back where the kids inhale snacks and assorted sundries by first smashing them on their face, and then eating the crunchy bits. The seat around my daughter’s buckle is pretty malleable, considering that I had to dismantle it some years back to clean up a quart of chunky vomit.
I’m not even going to say it outloud because you know it’ll jinx me, but since then we haven’t needed to perform that particular service again. I understand this is just a matter of time.


Step 3: Put Van Back Together, While Admiring It’s Beauty

If cleaning out and vacuuming the vehicle wasn’t enough of a time suck, you then have to actually put away all the garbage you shoveled out of it. I had a pile for the laundry, a pile for the kitchen, a pile for the garbage, and yes, there is still a foil pan with a few remaining stragglers sitting on the driveway. I put back the driver’s side floor mat, admiring the cool hole that has worn through the bottom, but it does make a cool new way to play peek-a-boo with your three year old.

And lastly, the favorite part of my van has to be the passenger side mirror:

You too could be a proud owner of a carpet-soiled, rotten milk smelling van with a broken side mirror. The only thing you’ll need to do, is back out of your garage early in the morning (before your cup of coffee) while looking through the rearview mirror to make sure you’re not actually running over your children, and wait for the CRACK! CRUNCH! that is to ensue. For while we have a two car garage, it is obviously designed for two Tato Nano’s  and not for a Dodge minivan and Toyota hybrid. When the cars are parked in the garage together, I have to climb into my van through the passenger door and into the driver’s seat. This is not a reflection of my growing arse, but simply a statement about how large our garage is. (Although those wood-working tools along the side may be taking up a bit of room as well.) The interesting thing to note about my side mirror, is the entire apparatus popped off and is too broken to work again unless we purchase an entirely new side mirror part, so my handy man-y simply popped in the mirror just so it doesn’t look as tacky. This mirror is no longer able to be controlled with the little buttons on my dash, nor does it even reflect anything, because it’s so loosely popped in there, that it vibrates so much that the images are just a blur: like trying to watch a movie while someone is fast forwarding it. But whatever makes him feel less like a white-trash van owner. I’m happy to own up to it.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, with a little hard work, a bachelors in education and a masters degree in English, you too could own a vehicle just like mine. If you need any tips on how to get the fab smells like vomit and rotted dairy products out of your vehicle, give me call. If you’re needing information on how to disassemble the vans seats to clean up excrement, body fluids, or to find a lost limb or missing child, I’m here to help you. If you’d like to post information on the state of your own vehicle and attach pictures for us to commiserate together, I’d love you forever. It’s my calling to turn my misfortunes into learning experiences that help others. No need to thank me.

Shreds of Sanity

In about three weeks the kids and I leave to head back to Arizona for a month-long vacation. And while it seems like it's a long time away still, my to-do list is written and there is a mound of growing debris that I am gathering in my bedroom that needs to get shlepped to Arizona with us. Which made me remember this blog; one of my first postings back in December of 2007. The kids and I have made the trip many times since then and I can tell you that not much changes. Maybe they aren't as loud now that they are older, but there is still fighting. So, I'm going to go back to tackling the to-do list, while you entertain yourself at my expense. Enjoy.


Anyone who has ever traveled with children—especially on an airplane—knows what a harrowing and exhausting experience it can be. Even when your children are fairly well behaved. In fact, I think I’d rather get paper cuts underneath all my fingernails than to take my five and seven-year-old on a cross country trip again. They have been traveling on planes since they were very small, so I figured I was getting seasoned enough to know how to do it right. I always try to come armed with paraphernalia to keep an entire troop of children happily entertained for hours, but somehow 10 minutes into the flight the floor beneath our seats is littered with food wrappers, crayon shavings, shoes, a few socks, empty Capri sun packages and the children are, well, bored.

I have flown enough to know that the key to surviving an airplane trip with your children—at any time really, but especially when you are sans husband—is to keep the carry-on mess to a minimum. Each child has their own backpack, which contains: their music players, gameboys, crayons, coloring book, plain notebook, a pen and pencil, perhaps two small travel games or a deck of cards, a bag of their own personal snacks, a small pillow, and their “pet” stuffed animal. Theoretically, individual bags will alleviate the fighting, bickering and general upheaval that is typical of siblings, especially when those siblings are crammed together in airplane seats sized for your basic Oz Munchkin. I say theoretically because my children can always find something to fight about. “Your arm is on MY part of the arm rest… SO?…SO get it off it’s been there the whole time and I’m uncomfortable and it’s my turn to use the armrest…FINE have the armrest I didn’t want it anyway…THUNK…OWWW! MOM he pulled my pillow out from under my head…I’m going to rest now and I NEED a pillow…I was USING that pillow…SO?…SO it’s not fair…Well you CAN’T use the pillow AND the armrest at the SAME TIME…

It’s at this point I stand up and ask if anyone would like to switch seats with me, an LDS mom perhaps, who is used to dealing with 8 or 9 kids at the same time, which would make my two seem like a vacation, but alas, there are no takers. Quite a lot of people are whispering to each other however, which I don’t think is a good sign.

I sit down and wedge myself in the seat between them hoping my presence will make a difference. However, by the time our flight arrived in Boston—12 hours after leaving Phoenix—I was spent. My husband met us with a shiny smile and open arms, while all I could do was hold back the sob that wanted to escape. You’d think that the drive home at 10:45 at night would put the kids into some type of sleep, or at least quiet respite, but of course the adrenaline was still coursing through the veins, and the yelling and fighting, wrestling, singing, guffawing laughter and all around vocal upheaval was still alive and well. My husband said, “You’re quiet tonite. Are you tired?”

I’m sorry. Did he just ask me if I was tired?
Seriously. Is that what he just said?

I stared ahead and bit my tongue. Any sound that would have come from my mouth would have been a total verbal freak out and I was trying to stay pleasant. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks after all.
But tired? TIRED?? Tired doesn’t even begin to touch the depth to where my fatigue had fallen. Lower than smashed gum on the sidewalk, I tell you. But tired as I was, truth be told, I just wanted them to shut up. I had been the only adult to shield the barrage of questions and comments that shot from their gun-fire mouths since 10:00 a.m. And every one of those questions and comments was preceded with, “Can I ask you a question” or “Mom, I have something to tell you.” By the time those wheels touched down on my Bean Town black top, I was neck deep in words, question marks, complaints, exclamations; just sitting there drowning in black, bold letters and onomatopoeias. They were sucking the very life out of me to the point where all my answers were, “I don’t know.”
“When are we landing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will Dad be there to pick us up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is the green light on above the bathroom signal?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do we do if only two masks come down from the top?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom, do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”

I just wanted them to shut up. Shut up shut up shut up. I needed the ride home to be peaceful and quiet for five minutes. Tired? Yeah, I was tired. Tired of noise emanating from their messy squishy faces. By the time we were finally home and the children were in bed my ears were aching, the cartilage throbbing to the memory of their constant cacophonous clatter.

Now after writing this, tell me again why we take this trip every year, adding a baby to the mix? I know it's only six hours of my life and the good news is that no one knows me. I probably won't see any of those people again. I've tried to be proactive and have packed enough crap to keep them entertained for hours, and we've also got the DS's and the mini video player. A little bit of Benadryl, and we should be all set.

Thanksgiving of Epic Portions 2009

Our family made the seven-state trek to Wheeling, WV again this year to spend Thanksgiving with my husband’s family. What started a few years ago as a “special” trip out to WV for the November holiday has now turned into a “family tradition” that my children and my in-laws both eagerly anticipate (don't get me wrong, I do to-sorta). Weeks before the trip the kids start running around the house planning the games, headphones, food items, blankets and pillows they will shove into the backseats, making the mini van look like an episode of Hoarders. I, on the other hand, spend those weeks calling our friends to borrow the roof-top luggage carrier (that I should name for how much time it has spent with my family) and trying to mentally organize the van so I’m not up to my pits in crap before we leave our street. My husband actually asked if we really needed the luggage rack. I just laughed.

I didn’t time our departure very well, and heads up: 2:30 p.m. is not a good time to leave Massachusetts heading south on the 95, given that it puts you at about New York right around the time people are flying out of the city like The Birds revisited. Half-way through Connecticut brake lights glowed like a river of lava, and you know how well four-ton minivans with luggage carriers and three young passengers do while bobbing along in lava. We decided to follow the GPS and GET OFF THE HIGHWAY, which, heads up again: is NEVER a good idea. The traffic you know is always better than the traffic you don’t know. Needless to say, three-hours later we broke free of the auto-chains keeping us back and actually made it into New Jersey.

Now I’d like to give a shout out here to my three children, who, despite the traffic and the length of the trip thus far, were absolutely perfect angels. No one cried, pouted, whined, peed their pants, threw-up, or got a fever. I’m sure some of their good-naturedness had to do with the fact that their eyes were glued to some type of hand-held gaming screen or video playing device, and their mother who usually polices their time on such drivel was actually throwing movies at them card-dealer style and suggesting they play a few more games, even if their thumb joints were tired. If I have ever said a nasty word about video games (I haven’t, have I?) or our societies dependence on the damned television set, I would hear-by like to publicly eat my words and thank those designers and engineers who probably failed English, but dammit, save the lives and restore peace to traveling families worldwide. Even my youngest sat in her car seat, her face reflecting the glow of Elmo banging away on his dollar store piano for at least 70 blissful minutes.

My children were so fabulous they didn’t even complain about not getting to eat dinner until 9 p.m.. Sitting in traffic threw off the eating schedule, and in addition to feeding their brains with mind-numbing entertainment, I was also throwing back the only food I had brought with me: candy, fruit snacks, Gatorade, and stale Halloween pretzel packs. In fact, now that I’m typing this, I’m starting to see why the kids love the road trip so much….But anyway, by 9 p.m. I was feeling guilty for not providing some type of official dinner, as I’m pretty sure that’s in my parental job description somewhere—dinner before bed—so we pulled into the first place we could find. I couldn’t even tell you what town we were in, but we managed to locate a Quizno’s where I ordered food for me and my husband, while he took them to a McDonalds that was located inside a Walmart. Since I had met them at Walmart after I got our sandwiches and Mickie D’s was about to close (it being 9:00 p.m. and all) we decided to picnic in the parking lot. Now if I was a town resident and I happened upon a family sitting in a mini van with the back up in a dark parking lot of Walmart, whose kids were sitting on top blankets eating dry beef-product patties on a bun with 1.5 pickle slices, while their parents wolfed down sodas and hoagies simultaneously trying to keep the pillows and crap from falling out of the vehicle onto no doubt dirty, filthy, pavement crawling with germs, I would probably have called the police to tell them a transient family may need some assistance, or asked them if they needed $50 bucks and a place to stay the night. Fortunately, we managed to finish our quality eats, change the kids into pajamas, clean out the accumulated trash, and reorganize the pillows and blankets before Social Services stopped by to questions us. Unfortunately, no one offered us $50 bucks. Which I would have greatfully taken, as it’s rude to reject people trying to minister to others. I’m sure we looked like we needed some ministering.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, and our vacation—and the food prep—was in full swing bright and early later that morning (we got in at 3 a.m.). I will admit that when we started going to Nana and Papa’s for Thanksgiving it was difficult for me to leave behind the Thanksgiving traditions of my youth: the food dishes that were served only during the holiday meals, the sense of prepping, decorating, and setting a pretty table. After all, an Italian themed Thanksgiving is not what I was used to, and seeing spaghetti sauce on the table made the holiday seem, well, like a school night.

But as the years have progressed and I’ve grown in maturity and understanding, (how big of me to admit) I’ve let go of my assumptions about the Thanksgiving menu. What food items show up on the buffet table are the items I will eat, and if I really need to have a particular dish I can make it when I get home. As for the kids, I’m not sure you could please my children more than by offering gnocchi and sauce with every meal, that is unless you let them watch tv, play video games and gorge themselves on sugar for 10 hours. But the holiday menu is, well, rather loosey-goosey, and Papa and my brother and sister-in-law all love to cook and prepare food. When you get that many great chefs in the kitchen, it’s best to just go with it and make what you are told, or offer to perform the mundane tasks such as prepping or peeling or dicing. In fact, now that I think about it, Thanksgiving at the in-laws is all about cooking and preparing the food--creating fabulous dishes and offering a variety of personal favorites for each guest. Whether or not those dishes actually all go together or ever showed up on the Thanksgiving plates of the first New Englanders is of no concern. It’s also been my experience that Italians are a meat-loving bunch; the more meat you can serve and put into other dishes the better. Like I said, I’ve come to embrace the carnivoristic tendancies, even if it means I may need a stool softener later.

Turkey did make the cut this year, all 22 pounds of it. Yes, a 22 lb turkey. From what I’ve read, you should figure on 1 lb of turkey per person (which I think is a bit ridiculous because when is the last time you sat down to eat a full pound of anything, unless it’s a slice of fruit cake from your old Aunt Pat?) which would have meant a 10-12 pound turkey would have done the trick, but this Thanksgiving I suppose that each of were entitled to almost three pounds each. Ingest that much turkey and you may as well sprout feathers and a wattle. Or a waddle. Either one. And where’s room for the Thanksgiving meatballs?

The night before Thanksgiving, it seemed as if all the adults had been cooking for two solid days (in fact my middle daughter complained, “Mah-muumm, we haven’t even seen you since we’ve been here. You’ve been in the basement kitchen the whole time and haven’t even come upstairs.” Yes, I know. There is another pretty complete kitchen in the basement which is another blog entirely) and we were still saying things like, “Have you started the gnocchi yet?” “When are we going to put on the roast?” “How long does the bread take to make?”

“Do we even know what we’re serving?” Someone asked.

“Why don’t you write down what we have,” Someone else suggested.

So my brother-in-law started writing. Here’s the menu we ended up with:

Thanksgiving 2009

• Roasted (22 lb.) Turkey
• Pork Loin
• Meatballs
• Sausage Stuffing
• No Knead Wheat Bread
• Gnocchi & Sauce
• Cranberry Chutney
• Roasted Cauliflower Casserole
• Brussel Sprouts Piri Piri
• Green Chile Corn
• Green Salad with Pears
• Parmesan & Garlic Brussel Sprouts
• Deviled Eggs
• Antipasta Platter
• Mashed Potatoes & Gravy
• Pumpkin Pie
• Pumpkin Pecan Pie
• Pineapple Upsidedown Cake
• Pumpkin Roll
• Jenis Ice Cream
• Cinnamon Coffee Cake
• Fruit Cake

Now, at this point I’d love to tell you that the family gathering numbered more than 45, or that we cooked 15 dishes and provided 7 different desserts for the hungry college students from Franciscan University 25 miles away who were unable to go home for the holiday. But we didn’t. There were eight adults and three kids. Just us. We ate. And ate. I stood up, unbuttoned my pants and had a second plate of food. And after dinner there were so many leftovers we could have bathed in the remnants and still had enough for dinner the following day. But like any good, quality family gathering, it doesn’t have to make sense. The menu, the food items. The fact that we filled every plastic baggie, bin, and resealable container with food and were storing them on the back porch outside and under the front of the house because the two household refrigerators were already full, just goes to show you what a food-loving bunch we all are. Did we have the leftovers for breakfast? Well, some deviled eggs, but Papa made pancakes. Did we eat the leftovers for lunch? No, the ladies and children ate at Costco and the gentlemen ate fried fish at the American Legion. Did we have leftovers for dinner? Yes, we did pull them out for dinner. But guess what the kids ate? You got it. Gnocchi and sauce, leaving us with approximately 15 pounds of cold turkey.

But with any family gathering, the good times must come to an end, the love and stress of the holidays bottled and saved for next year. We packed up all the gear we brought, then packed up all gear we purchased, then packed up all the gear Papa gave us, and with the luggage rack near bursting, the kids knees at their chins for the 50 pound car jack, gently-used V-Tech phones, orange flashing dome light with car lighter adapter for emergencies, BB gun for my son (what 10 year old doesn’t need a BB gun?) and other accoutrements at their feet, we set off for the 10 hour trek back home. Did I do any complaining about the amount of items we brought back with us? Not much. Because one of the things we left with was a brand spankin’ new Cuisinart food processor my father-in-law happened to have on the shelf down in the basement kitchen. Not even being used. Just gathering flour dust. And funny enough, a Cuisinart food processor was just what I wanted for Christmas.

I’d love to continue this blog with a hellacious story about the ride home, but was surprisingly peaceful. The kids’ eyes bulged at the screens. We listened to our ipods. We even stopped for dinner at a REAL restaurant and even ate inside at a table. Dinner was good. Traffic? Non-existent all the way home. Weather? Crystal clear and starry. We pulled in around 1:00 a.m. and everyone went to bed without a fuss. Perhaps this ride home is my reward for all the other years of hellish driving conditions and screaming children. That, or maybe I was mesmerized by the thought of the 22 lb turkey and my new Cuisinart.

Dear Christine...

Dear Christine L. Alaniz,

I must admit, I was surprised to find that you were the Chief Engineer for the 2008 Dodge Grand Caravan. I was certain that I would find the face of some male on your web site. I’m glad to see a female presence there at your engineering offices. For one, it sends a great message to the girls of today, that an engineering degree is within their reach. That, and seems to me that most minivans are driven by mothers. Sure dads may pitch in now and again while on a long road trip, but they aren’t typically driving to their lunch meetings, golf games and hostile corporate take-overs in the family ride. So they shouldn't be the main designers.

I’m not sure how long you’ve been at Dodge, but I have no doubt that your womanly vision is to be credited with a few of the new features of the 2008 Caravan. Those Stow-n-Go seats are perfect for fitting the new swing set in the back (those big wooden ones I can’t afford) or hiding my latest score at Marshalls extra 50% off sale. The Swivel-and-Go seats also look like great van bling, and no doubt will make it easier to buckle in squirmy little children everywhere, seeing as how the big side door openings just don’t give you enough room. I can’t say I’m sold on the removable plastic table, as if encouraging my children to eat food in the van with a bucket of friends is a good idea. It is also way too reminiscent of an RV trip, and may make the kids think that everywhere we go is going to be a jolly-good-time. Sometimes the trip to the bank and grocery store need to be boring, just to remind kids how good they really have it and that yes, errands suck.

I’m a proud owner of a 2002 Dodge Grand Caravan and while I know that my van is the Jurassic equivalent of the Atari game system, it is currently paid off. I say currently because there is a remote possibility that we may need to borrow against its $300 value in order to pay for the gasoline needed to drive to work to earn the salary that buys the gas. Until that moment though, we hold the title, which means we will be driving the sucker into the ground, until it foams at the hood, until we find it floating belly up in our driveway.

Which leads me to why I’m writing you in the first place. Since my van is such a relic, it obviously didn’t come with those fancy shmancy tilt-a-whirl seats. It did however come with two built in 5-point harness child seats. I must say that I have loved these a great deal. It has made traveling with children a tad easier, in that I don’t have to lug around an additional 40 pound car seat in order to keep my children safe. It is also a nice option in case I need to transport another child whose parent insists they be in a legal 5-point harness. I’m happy to shoulder belt my own kids in the very back and hope like heck we don’t get rear-ended. But I need to let you know of a serious design flaw, one that I have yet to see remedied in your new models.

While driving to baseball practice the other evening, in a rush and harried as usual, my 9 year-old son is mimicking my 1 year-old daughter (as brothers are wont to do), until he realizes that the gagging sounds he thinks are hysterical, are in fact the precursory vomit noises. I glance in my rearview mirror in time to find my daughter hurling the contents of (what must be) at least a weeks worth of food in water-hose fashion. Swinging the car over to the shoulder of a very narrow street (your 2002 also has very good brakes BTW), I throw open the drivers side back door (those double open van sides really are the best thing since Nutella) to make sure my daughter is okay.

At this point I’m in a bit of a quandary. Not expecting to be gone long (the ball field is 2 minutes from the house) I don’t have the diaper bag. Also, not expecting to be dealing in bodily fluids, I left my latex-free gloves in the garage. My poor daughter is saucer-eyed and freaked out and now covered in orange chunky remains from neck to knee. What’s a mom to do? I double-hand scooped out the chunks onto the street, grabbed the dirty-van drying towel, stripped her down to the diaper, moved her over to the other built-in 5-point harness seat, and continued to drop my son off at baseball practice. Thankfully, I did have one container of wet wipes, which I used to excavate her from the 5-point harness.

For brevity, I’ll skip the part where I had to leave my son unattended at the ball park while I drove my WT diaper-vomit daughter home 15 minutes before my book club was due to arrive at my house for a fun filled evening of literary chatter, or how since I was so pressed for time I left the van in the garage with the vomit, the dirty towel, the messy clothes, and all the puky wet wipes overnight.

The next morning (after a very successful book club I might add) I faced the music and headed to the van armed with a bucket, rags, cleaners, air fresheners, and the vacuum. Up until this point, like I have mentioned, I really have been a fan of those 5-point harness seats. But I apparently I didn’t get issued the tools necessary to effectively clean those seats when I purchased my vehicle. Maybe it was an oversight on the dealerships part, way back in 2002, but it took 4 hours, a screwdriver and a fair amount of swearing to get that seat apart. I would have been happy to just wipe it real good like, but vomit by nature is runny and it crept its way down the seat belt hole. Yes, down past the removable washer part, past the easy-to-wipe pleather part, way down into that deep black abyss at the bottom of the buckle. That place where the extra change lives, and the hair barrettes, Polly Pocket shoes and crumbs of a thousands colors. As I removed each layer of that seat I discovered a new layer of puke. It even had breeched the seat foam. I did the best I could with the part of the seat I could remove. Yes, I had to tear the upholstery slightly. Yes, you can see a bit of the foam. But what about the rest of the van seat? The part that isn’t removable? I did the best I could with the wipe-and-dab method, and while I may have gotten the chunks, the vomit juice is still alive and well down there.

Even after the thorough detailing, the van still smells like acrid orange juice. There are so many dryer sheets stashed and hanging in my van we could ward off lightning. I now own stock in Febreeze. My son has stopped having nightmares about the orange lava bubbling up from his sister’s stomach, but the van still smells like puke.

Which brings me to the crux of my letter: Why hasn’t someone at the top of that design ladder installed removable seat covers yet? Seats where you can zip off the covers, throw them in the wash and reinstall? If it’s a matter of finding a really long zipper, I’m sure any tent manufacturer would lend you one for a prototype. What’s a couple zippers cost anyway? I’m happy to pay an extra 20 bucks or so, if it means that I can un-zip my seats and wash them. If you think it might be too expensive to manufacture seats like that, maybe you could save money in the plastic form department, and quit making those molded loose change dispensers in my front panel. They are a pain in the ass anyway, and everyone knows no one ever uses them. If you have time to sort and shove your change into the plastic “change holder” you must not have kids, because my change is used up in bubble gum machines, drive-throughs and in the recesses of the backseats that I can’t get to, and my time is spent cleaning up puke. Just make that plastic area plain and square, easy to wipe out and unbreakable. Marketing zipper seats won't be a problem either. I can even think of a great name for your new seats….be ready for it… “Zip-and-Go.” Creative isn’t it? I also think that name will work nicely with the other seat features of the 2008.

Well, Ms. Alaniz, I’ll wrap this letter up. If you ever need any more ideas on how to make Dodge’s minivans more kid-friendly, feel free to contact me. I have some thoughts about seat dividers (that pull down from the ceiling so kids can’t see or touch each other), and a sound-proof cage for the driver that you may be interested in.

Sincerely,
Rachel Vidoni
Self-Appointed Honorary 5-Point Harness Cleaning and Installation Manager

Keeping it Real in DC

For the second year in a row, we spent Easter in Washington DC and attended the White House Easter Egg Roll. I sense your shock: Mom complains about traveling with children and then…continues to travel with them for 7 hours in a van. Since we’ve recently driven to West Virginia, anything less than 12 hours is a cake walk. And besides, it gives me fodder I tell you.

The drive down to DC went without a hitch. We loaded up sleeping babes at 2:30 a.m. and headed off into the night. We managed to miss all the heavy trailer-truck-traffic, and semi-conventions that litter southbound 95 between Connecticut and (let’s face it) Maryland. The children awoke around 6:30 a.m. and lasted at least another hour with piles of pre-packaged breakfast bars, snack crackers and juice boxes. Stopped for breakfast at around 7:30- 8:00 a.m. at Crackerbarrel.

There is something about Crackerbarrel that beckons to me while on a road trip. Our family has had one or two good experiences at this restaurant, apparently which is what I hold onto when we decide to eat there again. It has a fun Country Store Atmosphere. It’s got a Good Time Family Feel to it. It has community checkers for heaven’s sake, and jump-a-peg games at the table. (That have been touched by who knows how many non-hand-washing bathroom users, but don’t get me started.) We eat a marginal breakfast, blend in perfectly, get back on the road, and once again, swear we won’t be stopping by another Crackerbarrel anytime soon.

Before going further, I need to explain a couple brief points about why we were headed to DC. We would never be going to the Egg Roll if it weren’t for the family connections that got us in. We also wouldn’t be staying at the hotel we stayed at, except that it is a sponsor of the Egg Roll, and therefore the rooms are more reasonable for Egg Roll guests. So our reservations were at the Mayflower Hotel; made famous by the many Treaties that were signed there, the Inaugural Balls that were held there, and oh yes, Mr. Spitzer’s indiscretions.

The Mayflower Hotel is not only beautiful, it is teeming with Important People; Businessmen, Congresswomen, Government Officials, and no doubt Influential International CEO’s. None of whom I would ever know even if they introduced themselves and handed me their vita. Everyone dresses in black. Everyone carries an Italian leather briefcase or satchel. And quite a few people had trendy curly-wire ear-pieces in chic flesh tones, on the edge of their martini seat, waiting for an urgent errand to run.

Enter: Big Green 2002 Dodge Caravan with Black Top Luggage Carrier,(which might as well have been spewing black billows of carbon emissions and humping the asphalt with hydraulics and a horn that played “La Cucaracha.”)

There is nothing quite so patriotic as driving up to the front of the Mayflower beneath multiple American flags waving proud, and unloading three children, two all-niter adults, five large suitcases, a dusty stroller, pack-and-play and two arm-loads of van-toys and activities. They must have known we were coming, because I’m quite sure that I heard Green Acres piped loudly out onto Connecticut Avenue, and in a reverse Cinderella moment, felt like all of my family had a few missing teeth and remains of Crackerbarrel eggs and toast on our shirts. I instructed my older two children to QUIETLY sit on the steps inside and try not to draw attention to themselves. This being difficult to accomplish while holding a cardboard box with travel games, an Ihome radio and an armful of colorful winter jackets. (I forgot to pack the kid’s black trenches.)

I try to check in. Our room isn’t ready, but the suitcases are already on the bell cart, and we’d love to Valet the car, but there’s a problem.

The van won’t fit in Valet parking with the roof rack on.

So my husband adjusts his suspender straps, scratches his thigh, spits in an old copper urn that appears out of nowhere and proceeds to un-hook the roof rack. We’re not sure at this point if the thing will fit in the van. We didn’t think to problem solve that before we left. And if it doesn’t? I suppose we would have pallbearer-walked it up to the 6th floor and embraced it as a new and modern couch. Luckily, after a substantial tip to the Valet, the Valet manager “found room” for it back in storage. Meanwhile, I’m trying to check in with the-baby-on-my-hip, proverbial bra-straps showing, tattoo of whiskey bottle on forearm. The Front Desk Man is very helpful, overly accommodating, and after each comment says my name, “Mrs. Vee-doh-Nee.” I liked him. Even with the puppet strings. I call my Family Connection, explain the circumstances, and put the Front Desk Man on the cell with my Connection. In a few minutes, we are checking into my Connection’s suite. I’m always amazed at my Connection’s ability to get things done. We are now able to unload all of our gear and figure out what we are going to do next. Actually we were just waiting for all the people who might have been down in the lobby to leave, so we are unrecognized on our next jaunt to the first floor. (Kind of like when you are using the public bathroom and you wait until all the people leave so no one will know it’s YOU that stunk up the joint. C’mon. You all know you’ve done it.)

Since my Connection had to work to get things finalized for the Egg Roll, we were able to watch her daughter. The kids all get along great and only helped solidify our status as “Typical American Family,” as we left the hotel with (now) four children. We took the kids to the Air and Space Museum, Museum of Natural History, and the World War II and Lincoln Memorials. The Egg Roll was a great hit as well, with characters from Kung Fu Panda to Strawberry Shortcake. We even got to see the President give the Welcome speech, from under the balcony on the South Lawn. The kids were impressed, but the Jonas Brother’s performance upstaged ol’ GW as far as the kids were concerned. We rolled eggs, took pictures and rubbed elbows with the few thousand people who were also at the festivities. And while many kids were in their Easter best—fluffy lavender and pale yellow dresses, shiny white dress shoes with slick leather bottoms and little boys in clip-on ties and blue blazers—my kids had on jeans and sweatshirts, winter hats and tennis shoes.

The only difficult thing we encountered while in DC was trying to find a place to eat that didn’t have white placemats and wine glasses on the table; a place where, say, a baby could throw food on the floor without alarms going off in the kitchen. A place like, well, Applebees or …..Crackerbarrel.

All had a memorable time, even if we didn’t fit the usual guest profile at our hotel. Instead of visiting the front lobby bar for posh drinks, we got hot water for the baby bottle. Instead of traveling in a fashionable three-wheeled black stroller, we left pushing the squeaky navy-blue monstrosity replete with clear vinyl rain cover, cameras, snacks, toys and tourist maps. Instead of eating brunch at the hotel restaurant for $79 a person, we paid $27 at a place down the street. Heck, instead of courting a second relationship, we were on a family vacation adventure. I like to think we helped keep it real for all those DC politicians. A little glimpse of the constituency that they serve.

And here's a shout out for my Connection, without whom all these wonderful family memories would not be possible. Thanks a million and we love you!

Over The River and Through The Skies

As my family prepares for yet another holiday excursion, this time a flight from Providence to Phoenix, I’m reminded of the last trip I took alone with the kids. Traveling with my family is a bit like childbirth; I always forget the pain and tribulations involved until I'm experiencing it again and the guy from the V-8 commercials pops me in the head and I realize, “Oh yeah, this is why I swore never to do this again.”

Anyone who has ever traveled with children—especially on an airplane—knows what a harrowing and exhausting experience it can be. Even when your children are fairly well behaved. In fact, I think I’d rather get paper cuts underneath all my fingernails than to take my five and seven-year-old on a cross country trip again. They have been traveling on planes since they were very small, so I figured I was getting seasoned enough to know how to do it right. I always try to come armed with paraphernalia to keep an entire troop of children happily entertained for hours, but somehow 10 minutes into the flight the floor beneath our seats is littered with food wrappers, crayon shavings, shoes, a few socks, empty Capri sun packages and the children are, well, bored.

I have flown enough to know that the key to surviving an airplane trip with your children—at any time really, but especially when you are sans husband—is to keep the carry-on mess to a minimum. Each child has their own backpack, which contains: their music players, gameboys, crayons, coloring book, plain notebook, a pen and pencil, perhaps two small travel games or a deck of cards, a bag of their own personal snacks, a small pillow, and their “pet” stuffed animal. Theoretically, individual bags will alleviate the fighting, bickering and general upheaval that is typical of siblings, especially when those siblings are crammed together in airplane seats sized for your basic Oz Munchkin. I say theoretically because my children can always find something to fight about. “Your arm is on MY part of the arm rest… SO?…SO get it off it’s been there the whole time and I’m uncomfortable and it’s my turn to use the armrest…FINE have the armrest I didn’t want it anyway…THUNK…OWWW! MOM he pulled my pillow out from under my head…I’m going to rest now and I NEED a pillow…I was USING that pillow…SO?…SO it’s not fair…Well you CAN’T use the pillow AND the armrest at the SAME TIME…

It’s at this point I stand up and ask if anyone would like to switch seats with me, an LDS mom perhaps, who is used to dealing with 8 or 9 kids at the same time, which would make my two seem like a vacation, but alas, there are no takers. Quite a lot of people are whispering to each other however, which I don’t think is a good sign.

I sit down and wedge myself in the seat between them hoping my presence will make a difference. However, by the time our flight arrived in Boston—12 hours after leaving Phoenix—I was spent. My husband met us with a shiny smile and open arms, while all I could do was hold back the sob that wanted to escape. You’d think that the drive home at 10:45 at night would put the kids into some type of sleep, or at least quiet respite, but of course the adrenaline was still coursing through the veins, and the yelling and fighting, wrestling, singing, guffawing laughter and all around vocal upheaval was still alive and well. My husband said, “You’re quiet tonite. Are you tired?”

I’m sorry. Did he just ask me if I was tired?
Seriously. Is that what he just said?
I stared ahead and bit my tongue. Any sound that would have come from my mouth would have been a total verbal freak out and I was trying to stay pleasant. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks after all.
But tired? TIRED?? Tired doesn’t even begin to touch the depth to where my fatigue had fallen. Lower than smashed gum on the sidewalk, I tell you. But tired as I was, truth be told, I just wanted them to shut up. I had been the only adult to shield the barrage of questions and comments that shot from their gun-fire mouths since 10:00 a.m. And every one of those questions and comments was preceded with, “Can I ask you a question” or “Mom, I have something to tell you.” By the time those wheels touched down on my Bean Town black top, I was neck deep in words, question marks, complaints, exclamations; just sitting there drowning in black, bold letters and onomatopoeias. They were sucking the very life out of me to the point where all my answers were, “I don’t know.”
“When are we landing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will Dad be there to pick us up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is the green light on above the bathroom signal?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do we do if only two masks come down from the top?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom, do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”

I just wanted them to shut up. Shut up shut up shut up. I needed the ride home to be peaceful and quiet for five minutes. Tired? Yeah, I was tired. Tired of noise emanating from their messy squishy faces. By the time we were finally home and the children were in bed my ears were aching, the cartilage throbbing to the memory of their constant cacophonous clatter.

Now after writing this, tell me again why it’s a good idea to take this trip once more, adding a 7 month old baby to the mix? At least my husband will be along for the ride, which gives us a 4:3 parent-hand to loud-child-mouth ratio. It’s do-able. I’ve packed enough crap to keep them entertained for hours you know, and it is wonderful fodder for a blog. Blog fodder. Ha.

Here is wishing all my loyal and faithful readers (yes, you mom) a very merry Christmas. May you all have safe travels and the batteries on your movie players and gameboys not die half way to your destination.

Thanksgiving 2007

I decided that I’ve waited long enough. The five of you that read this blog have been just begging me to tell you about this Thanksgiving. Details of the festivities. The humor in everyday events. It puts your own life in perspective you say. Well, glad I could be of help.

This year I figured that with new baby in tow, we should go visit my in-laws for Turkey Day, since my husband's grandparents aren’t able to travel very well. Now, being an inhabitant of Eastern Massachusetts and considering that the in-laws live in West Virginia, this means a 10+ hour drive to visit. I really wanted to fly, but my husband informed me that if we wanted to provide something besides oranges and sticks of gum in our children’s stockings this year, we would need to drive. Deep sigh.

Preparing for a trip of this proportion is no small feat. The thought of driving with my two fighting-aged children as well as a baby that is prone to scream if in her seat longer than 15 minutes was enough to give me a migraine, let alone trying to cram 2 tons of family paraphernalia into a 1 pound space. If there is anything that sets off my internal anxiety switch, it’s being ass-to-elbow with crap and not being able to move. I’d like to interject at this point, that I did request that my husband borrow one of those roof-rack-luggage-holding-shell things. Knowing how I am, I warned him I was feeling anxious about the amount of stuff we would need to bring (pack-and-play, stroller, luggage, toy bags, etc). And you’d think that after living with me for 9 years, he’d be jumping at the chance to avoid having to deal with me in high anxiety flip-out. I put my request in early, like all good customers, allowing him plenty of time to secure said traveling device. I also followed that request up with daily inquiries about whether or not he had located the object. Two days from lift-off, we still had no roof rack, so he decides we might as well buy one, they are only a couple hundred dollars after all. Sears has them on sale, wouldn’t you know, and I’ll go down there today and pick one up.

I knew we were in trouble when he hit me up with, “So how much stuff are you talking about? Are you sure it won’t fit in the van?” Sears was out of stock. Shocking.

My husband vows that it’s all going to be alright, he’ll load the van, and assures me plenty of move-about space, don’t worry, pat-pat. Now, for my part I manage to pack everyone in their own small duffel bag and decide that to minimize my stress, I will be in charge of the children’s to-do bags and all snacks. I will hand them one thing at a time, and will not let them play with anything until I get the first item back. I have all the headphones, gameboys, music players and all cords neatly tucked into a small metal lunch box. A small whiteboard with dry erase markers in ziplock bag (labeled with number of markers.) Coloring books, with crayons in plastic school-desk organizer. A container of Wet Ones, a pump bottle of hand sanitizer, and a small arsenal of movies to watch on their (newly-purchased-just-for-this-trip) video players. Each child has their own individual small pillow and blanket, and with every thing loaded into the car, there is still floor space. We just might make it after all.

I’ll fast forward the trip. We left after dinner at around 7:30. Being so dark, all the kids slept the entire 10 hour ride to West Virginia. Anyone who questions the existence of God, need only look at this small miracle to become a believer. We pulled into my in-laws house at 5 a.m. and the Thanksgiving holiday was underway.

We had a great visit, everyone oohed and ahhed at the baby, and the kids were able to spend quality time with all the Nana’s and the Papa’s. (Historical note: When my husband was little he called his grandparents Nana and Papa, so when our kids were born that’s what they call my in-laws. The problem is that since my husband’s Nana and Papa are still alive and living four blocks away, we have two set’s of Nana’s and Papa’s. This is a tad confusing for the kids who are always asking, “Which Nana and Papa” so we have been saying things like, “Regular Nana and Papa, coupled with Great Nana and Papa.” Old Nana and Papa and Younger Nana and Papa didn’t sound quite right, neither did First Nana and Papa, and Second Nana and Papa. So Regular and Great (respectively) were what stuck. If you are confused, don’t feel bad. So are the kids.)

Thanksgiving Day arrived and the meal was delicious. On the menu for the day; stuffed rigatoni, sausage and spaghetti sauce, meatbulbs, homemade bread, green salad, mashed potatoes, gravy and a boil-in-the-bag pre-cooked turkey breast. (If you’re wondering about the menu, see blog titled “A Regular Thanksgiving.”) We ate, had dessert, and stayed a few more days.

I really love traveling. Honestly. My least favorite things about it however, are packing to get there and packing to go home. It’s inevitable that you are going to come home with more stuff than when you started. Because that way, no one has to ship anything and therefore people feel very generous in the gift and thing-giving arena. Keeping in mind that we were already stuffed like sausage in van-casing, here is the list of what new items found a ride back to MA:

1. A singing rock and roll bass that mounts to the wall, for my son who will get a kick out of it, complements of Great Papa.
2. A very large digital clock, for my husband who will really enjoy it, complements of Great Papa.
3. A hand carved authentic replica Native American bow (which is very cool) complements of a friend of Regular Papa.
4. A green stuffed bunny for the baby, complements of Great Nana.
5. A wooden snowman decoration for me, (which I love) complements of Regular Nana.
6. A plastic bag of cut fresh pineapple and sliced chocolate chip pumpkin bread in case we get hungry.
7. Two new pairs of shoes for my husband, from underneath Regular Papa’s bed.
8. And, last but certainly not least, a four quart jar of fresh homemade sauerkraut (which must stay upright) a container of salt and an opened bottle of hot sauce my husband loves.
   

We were also supposed to take a game chair for my son, but alas, it wouldn’t fit. Now I’m shooting my husband the “Gee-wouldn’t-it-be-great-if-we-had-a-roof-rack-Don’t-tell-me-we-are-seriously-taking-that-sauerkraut-look” and he’s a tad quiet because he knows I’m right, and we manage to smash the kids in between the extra items leaving them approximately 10 hours of breathing space, get in the van and start off down the road.

Now, there is a reason that our trip there was so successful. It’s because if our trip there had been one-tenth as hellish as the trip home, I would have turned the van around and never left MA.

It’s raining on the trip home. A downpour so heavy that the fastest cycle on the wipers is not doing much for visibility. It’s also foggy. So foggy that it’s difficult to see the cars in front of you. There are about a million truckers on the road barreling down the highways, spraying the van with water from tire spin off. I’m not sure if it’s more dangerous to travel behind them and not see, or to speed to about 100 and try and pass them. My husband is driving. I’m holding the baby in the backseat—yes holding her—because she is screaming at the top of her lungs and has been for about forty-five minutes, Frick and Frack are in the backseat complaining that they are hungry, and he’s kicking me, no I’m not, yes you are, well you’re taking up the whole back seat, no I’m not, yes you are, well there’s a big box back here in my way (the singing bass), you’re sitting on my blanket, then give me my pillow….and I’m jiggle jiggle jiggling the baby who is still screaming, there is a jar of sauerkraut at my feet and a computer bag in my way, it’s raining, there’s fog, and now the fact that I didn’t get much sleep the entire vacation is really catching up with me. I feel the mercury in my body rising…and this whole experience is starting to feel like a horror movie, and now the anxious neurotic part of me is sure we are going to slip on the road, roll the van and all die in a fiery inferno. I can see the clips on the news, see the headlines “Family of Five Perishes on Interstate 78; Singing Bass Escapes.

Then it happens. Something gets thrown from the backseat. I hear markers hitting the floor, stuff being kicked onto already crammed foot space. The natives are about to lose it, but not before mom’s thermometer explodes.
(Those with a weak stomach or a tendency towards child advocacy may want to skip the next part.)

At this point I officially lose it. I slam on the overhead light, screaming, “WHO IS THROWING THINGS? WHO IS THROWING THINGS!! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT THROWING THINGS…” And I’m in the process of yelling, and the kids are bug-eyed and cowering in the backseat, the baby is still at full blare, my husband is trying to navigate us through a watery hell and now he’s yelling at me to CALM DOWN and QUIT THROWING THINGS and DO I WANT TO DRIVE? NO! I scream. I DO NOT WANT TO DRIVE because if I were driving right now I’d pull over and wait for the damned storm to pass, I’d rather just wait for us to die, not actually be in charge of us dying, and now every one is strangely quiet. I think about five minutes ago there was a line I crossed. I’m pretty sure there is no going back…chalk up one more issue for childhood counseling. I’m sobbing and the kids in the backseat are now sleeping just where they lay for fear of rustling up more Scary Mom. The baby has fallen asleep too, because even a 6 month old can only cry so long before passing out.

I’m really not proud to admit all this. Of course we made it home safely, didn’t roll the van, didn’t spin off the road and all die in a fiery inferno. We were fine, just like my husband said, pat-pat. Even if whoever counsels my children in the future is going to make a mint. In fact, the trip was so successful, we are starting to make our Easter plans to travel to Washington DC. In the van. Only a 7 hour drive this time. Cake.