“No daddy, throw the small rocks.” Normally, you'd expect this sort of comment during something like skipping stones, not while playing freeze tag. (more on this later.)
We took our kids on their first real camping trip. A real weekend of roughing it in the wild... Us against nature... The real Swiss Family Robinson.
The trip had been planned for a few weeks, we were going to hit the wide open road right after work. Just the four of us for a weekend away.
But, there was a forecast of a thunderstorm and our five-year daughter thought it might be a good idea to postpone her first ever, real life camping trip one day until the storms had passed. So, our trip into the great unknown was delayed while Mother Nature got her act together.
Finally, Saturday arrived and no hint of the dreaded thunderstorms to ruin our trip. I hooked the pop-up trailer to the back of the SUV, loaded the pillow pets into the back and the cooler, then we took off for our one night of roughing it.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the camp ground and found our assigned spot. Two hours after that, (camping really is an educational experience. My kids' vocabularies had increased by several dozen new words and expressions.) I'd maneuvered the pop-up camper back onto the state-park mandated concrete slab. (The person that invented physics needs a good swift kick in the shin. Don't get me wrong, I did the high school physics and even had a degree in parental physics. (I was actually ready when my daughter asked, “Daddy, why is the sky blue.”
I told her all about vectors and light waves and infra red and even drew out the science of it.
When I was done, she gave me a long look, “For really, Daddy, why is the sky blue?”
“God used up all the green on the trees and only had blue left.” She gave me a quick nod as if to say, you shoulda stuck with the truth from the start.)
When I turn right going forward, the camper goes right. There is no logical reason why that same thing should not be true in reverse. ) I can still remember bits and pieces of the process.
“Daddy, is the tire s'posed to be in the fire pit?”
“Daddy, how come the camper is beside us?”
“Daddy, mommy said we can't use that word.”
“Or that word.”
With our home away from home finally parked within a reasonable definition of “on” the concrete slab, we jumped out and began the process of “camping”. Two mild strokes later, I'd learned that “pop-up” was code for turn the crank several hundred times while nothing happens.
But, my family was waiting. I knew how the settlers felt when they set out on the great expansions westward. Soulful eyes were staring and it'd been at least an hour since they'd eaten, so they were wondering if they were going to starve or, even worse, freeze to death in the cold, merciless night. My pioneering instincts kicked in. Within a matter of hours, the camper was up, the electricity plugged in, the gas turned on, the fridge started and the oven started. Just like our ancient ancestors overcame impossible odds, it looked like we were going to survive our first night out in the wild.
Where do rocks and freeze tag come in? After everything was set up, my son wanted to play freeze tag, with his rules. Timeouts were called often and based had a tendency to change for without warning. As he gleefully ran up the hill towards another base, I picked up a large rock. (In my defense, in western Pennsylvania all you can pick up are rocks, and I did look for a small one)
That's when my daughter channeled my wife. “No.” It wasn't even shouted. Both my son and I stopped and looked at my wife, then at my daughter. Since her hands were on her little hips, we knew we were in trouble. That's when the lecture started.
“Daddy, you can't throw big rocks. You have to throw the small ones. We have delicate skin. Adults don't, but kids do.” She started to scoop up a couple of small rocks.
Luckily, I managed to get to her before she could demonstrate her theory. It's a good thing that she wasn't part of the original settlers... If she had been, the west coast would have a lot less people. But, the survivors probable would have gotten there much faster.
Showing posts with label Driving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Driving. Show all posts
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Pot Holes
“Drive faster!” My daughter called from the back of the jeep.
“I can't. Your mommy will scream again.”
“Drive faster!!” both kids called from the back of the jeep.
We'd spent the afternoon in St. Croix playing in the surf at Cayne Bay. The hurricane had recently passed and left, in my son's words, “some sweet waves, baby.” Those were the waves we saw as we pulled up to the beach. The plan was to snorkel and do a little body surfing. Keep in mind, body surfing for my eight-year old son and five-year old daughter was mainly laying right where the last wave crashed and rolling in the surf. At least that was what they loved the day before when the waves “gently” lapped along the shore.
I took a look at the surf and realized the likelyhood of snorkeling today was nil. Oh, the kids would have both been up for it. However, four to five foot waves crashing where we'd be snorkeling was more than I was ready for.
So, we went to check out the surf. When the first wave hit my daughter and carried her 20 feet back up the shore, then dragged her back out to the open ocean, with only my shins finally stopping her, I thought it was a little rough... “You ok?” I asked, hoping to fix any problems before her mother came to rescue her.
For a second, the concusion blurred her eyes, then the dialation went away. “More!” and she was off to fight the waves with her brother.
I've learned a couple of things on this vacation. When it comes to water, both of my kids are insane. (My son and I snorkel together and my wife and daughter snorkel together. It is a sexist thing. Snorkeling is the perfect water sport for my daughter. She can look at things, constantly move and, most importantly, constantly talk. When my son and I snorkel near them, we can hear their constant chatter. “Is that a parrot fish? I see a parrot fish. Yes, mom, it's a parrot fish. No, that's a parrot fish...” (She has a thing for parrot fish))
I also learned that when you put dishwashing soap (the kind used in the sink, NOT the kind used in a dishwasher) in a dishwasher, there's a limit to how much you should put in. Otherwise, you get a kitchen full of bubbles. (In order to protect her reputation, I'm not going to say who actually did that. However, my son, daughter and I all had a good laugh.)
I've also learned that there is good reason for driving on the wrong side of the road here. Since this is an island, space is at a premium and they've saved quite a bit on the roads. Most of the roads are wide enough for two cars to pass, as long there are only two coats of paint. When I picked up the rental jeep, I was surprised to get the only car in the world that had more dents than my wife's minivan. (By the time we got done with the inspection, you couldn't actually see the car). I figured the dents and stuff were from off-roading. Now I know better. The way you drive here is simple. If the brush on the left-hand side of the road is not smacking the car, you are too far over. (My wife would be a natural driving here. She also uses the drive by touch philosphy.)
I also learned that when you go around a corner on the island (I could add sharp, blind, pot-hole filled, overgrown and flooded corner, but that's every corner here.) and your wife is in the passenger seat, and she's tired and not paying attention and she looks up at the wrong second AND she sees a car right in front of her on the “wrong” side of the road, she will scream.
“I can't drive any faster we'll hit the potholes.”
“Drive faster and you'll fly over them.” In the rear view mirror, I saw my daughter's hand gacefully float as she demonstrated the physics of her version of driving.
“But mommy will scream again.” I pointed out.
“YAY!” At least the kids have adapted to island life...
“I can't. Your mommy will scream again.”
“Drive faster!!” both kids called from the back of the jeep.
We'd spent the afternoon in St. Croix playing in the surf at Cayne Bay. The hurricane had recently passed and left, in my son's words, “some sweet waves, baby.” Those were the waves we saw as we pulled up to the beach. The plan was to snorkel and do a little body surfing. Keep in mind, body surfing for my eight-year old son and five-year old daughter was mainly laying right where the last wave crashed and rolling in the surf. At least that was what they loved the day before when the waves “gently” lapped along the shore.
I took a look at the surf and realized the likelyhood of snorkeling today was nil. Oh, the kids would have both been up for it. However, four to five foot waves crashing where we'd be snorkeling was more than I was ready for.
So, we went to check out the surf. When the first wave hit my daughter and carried her 20 feet back up the shore, then dragged her back out to the open ocean, with only my shins finally stopping her, I thought it was a little rough... “You ok?” I asked, hoping to fix any problems before her mother came to rescue her.
For a second, the concusion blurred her eyes, then the dialation went away. “More!” and she was off to fight the waves with her brother.
I've learned a couple of things on this vacation. When it comes to water, both of my kids are insane. (My son and I snorkel together and my wife and daughter snorkel together. It is a sexist thing. Snorkeling is the perfect water sport for my daughter. She can look at things, constantly move and, most importantly, constantly talk. When my son and I snorkel near them, we can hear their constant chatter. “Is that a parrot fish? I see a parrot fish. Yes, mom, it's a parrot fish. No, that's a parrot fish...” (She has a thing for parrot fish))
I also learned that when you put dishwashing soap (the kind used in the sink, NOT the kind used in a dishwasher) in a dishwasher, there's a limit to how much you should put in. Otherwise, you get a kitchen full of bubbles. (In order to protect her reputation, I'm not going to say who actually did that. However, my son, daughter and I all had a good laugh.)
I've also learned that there is good reason for driving on the wrong side of the road here. Since this is an island, space is at a premium and they've saved quite a bit on the roads. Most of the roads are wide enough for two cars to pass, as long there are only two coats of paint. When I picked up the rental jeep, I was surprised to get the only car in the world that had more dents than my wife's minivan. (By the time we got done with the inspection, you couldn't actually see the car). I figured the dents and stuff were from off-roading. Now I know better. The way you drive here is simple. If the brush on the left-hand side of the road is not smacking the car, you are too far over. (My wife would be a natural driving here. She also uses the drive by touch philosphy.)
I also learned that when you go around a corner on the island (I could add sharp, blind, pot-hole filled, overgrown and flooded corner, but that's every corner here.) and your wife is in the passenger seat, and she's tired and not paying attention and she looks up at the wrong second AND she sees a car right in front of her on the “wrong” side of the road, she will scream.
“I can't drive any faster we'll hit the potholes.”
“Drive faster and you'll fly over them.” In the rear view mirror, I saw my daughter's hand gacefully float as she demonstrated the physics of her version of driving.
“But mommy will scream again.” I pointed out.
“YAY!” At least the kids have adapted to island life...
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Almost There
6:15 p.m.
We were close to three weeks into our road trip. (You travel with two kids that can barely wait to get to the cabin so they can get out their sleeping bags and blow up beds and tell me each hour doesn't feel like at least a day.) We all needed a break and there was a Waffle House coming up. In hindsight, loading them up on syrup at that time of night might not have been the wisest option.
We pulled into the parking lot and I freed my daughter from the 3000 point safety harness. For the record, I did notice that she was soaked. I thought it was from the effort of getting out of the Government Regulated Safety Seat. Besides, the bottle of water I'd given her earlier hadn't been that full. We almost made it into the restaurant, but her mother discovered the soaked clothes and decided there would be a Change.
That was when we ran into the packing issue. The Change had not been packed in the essentials bag. They were in the depths of the roof bag. And the roof bag was held down by straps that I had serious doubts I'd be able to loosen. With the grumpy whining motivating me, I managed to loosen the straps. Since I'd packed the roof bag, I had a pretty good idea where my daughter's clothes were and dug out a shirt and pair of shorts. I displayed my find proudly, sure the whining would stop. But, I was told they didn't match in a very grumpy voice.
I appealed to my daughter, and even though I got her seal of approval, my wife still wasn't happy. I was banished to child watching while my wife found a matching set of clothes. (In hindsight, I can see the importance of my daughter wearing clothes that match. We were in a small town, that we would never be in again, she was about to eat dinner (read pretty much any article in my blog and you'll figure out that food and my daughter means a mess), we were going to spend the next couple of hours in the car and would arrive at the campground well after dark and put the kids right to bed. Being seen in a mismatched shirt would undoubtedly traumatize her for life.)
After dinner, we hit the road again for the final leg of the trek. I was allowed back behind the wheel. I honestly don't know what time we got the cabin. I just remember that it was raining. And it was dark. And everyone was tired. We had a small cabin that first night and would move to a “family” cabin the next day. Since we were just going to sleep, I figured the small room would be fine.
That was before I carried the roof bag through the primeval rain forest that separated the parting lot from the cabin. Both kids immediately dug in looking for their sleeping bags and blow up mattresses. I didn't quite catch the fact that my wife had bought a different mattress for each child. All I looked at was the first box to make sure it had a pump.
Immediately after opening the first one, I made a note to verify that the pumps always have a plug. The one she'd bought used batteries. Even though I already knew the answer, I asked anyway, “Honey, do we have AA batteries?”
While she cursed and looked through her bag, I opened the other mattress, glad that it was a different type. Maybe it had a plug? The night was not a total loss yet. (Both kids had already spread their sleeping bags on the floor and were jumping up and down on the bed, positive that they were not tired.) I was right. This one didn't require batteries! That's because it didn't have a pump at all. You actually had to blow it up. It must have been the last one manufactured in the work and my wife bought it.
I tried telling the kids how soft and comfortable the floor looked in the vain hope they'd say, “Why father, there's no need for you to venture out into the rainy and dark night. We would be happy to camp out on the floor.”
Instead, I walked to the main lodge. Surely, they'd have the batteries and we'd back on track to a peaceful evening. I was right. They did have them. About two days ago they had them. The nearest store was a half-hour drive away and I had three tired and cranky people waiting back at the cabin.
Ok... I did consider going to get the batteries, and taking the scenic route. In case you are wondering, it is possible to blow up an air mattress. It took two aneurisms, a mild heart attack and I'm pretty sure my left eye was bleeding by the time I was done.
With the mattress blown up, the kids each on their half and fighting sleep, I told them a story. (The bag with their books was still in the back of the Prius and even though the rain had slowed, I was too lightheaded to risk the walk to the car.) I don't remember the moral of the story, but they were both silent and wide-eyed when I was done.
11:15 PM.
We'd arrived, everyone survived the trip. The veins in my temples weren't throbbing as much. Vacation officially starts tomorrow-- Hold on... “I don't want to hear any more complaining. It's time for you to sleep.. You've been whining all day. And kids, stop teasing your mother!”
We were close to three weeks into our road trip. (You travel with two kids that can barely wait to get to the cabin so they can get out their sleeping bags and blow up beds and tell me each hour doesn't feel like at least a day.) We all needed a break and there was a Waffle House coming up. In hindsight, loading them up on syrup at that time of night might not have been the wisest option.
We pulled into the parking lot and I freed my daughter from the 3000 point safety harness. For the record, I did notice that she was soaked. I thought it was from the effort of getting out of the Government Regulated Safety Seat. Besides, the bottle of water I'd given her earlier hadn't been that full. We almost made it into the restaurant, but her mother discovered the soaked clothes and decided there would be a Change.
That was when we ran into the packing issue. The Change had not been packed in the essentials bag. They were in the depths of the roof bag. And the roof bag was held down by straps that I had serious doubts I'd be able to loosen. With the grumpy whining motivating me, I managed to loosen the straps. Since I'd packed the roof bag, I had a pretty good idea where my daughter's clothes were and dug out a shirt and pair of shorts. I displayed my find proudly, sure the whining would stop. But, I was told they didn't match in a very grumpy voice.
I appealed to my daughter, and even though I got her seal of approval, my wife still wasn't happy. I was banished to child watching while my wife found a matching set of clothes. (In hindsight, I can see the importance of my daughter wearing clothes that match. We were in a small town, that we would never be in again, she was about to eat dinner (read pretty much any article in my blog and you'll figure out that food and my daughter means a mess), we were going to spend the next couple of hours in the car and would arrive at the campground well after dark and put the kids right to bed. Being seen in a mismatched shirt would undoubtedly traumatize her for life.)
After dinner, we hit the road again for the final leg of the trek. I was allowed back behind the wheel. I honestly don't know what time we got the cabin. I just remember that it was raining. And it was dark. And everyone was tired. We had a small cabin that first night and would move to a “family” cabin the next day. Since we were just going to sleep, I figured the small room would be fine.
That was before I carried the roof bag through the primeval rain forest that separated the parting lot from the cabin. Both kids immediately dug in looking for their sleeping bags and blow up mattresses. I didn't quite catch the fact that my wife had bought a different mattress for each child. All I looked at was the first box to make sure it had a pump.
Immediately after opening the first one, I made a note to verify that the pumps always have a plug. The one she'd bought used batteries. Even though I already knew the answer, I asked anyway, “Honey, do we have AA batteries?”
While she cursed and looked through her bag, I opened the other mattress, glad that it was a different type. Maybe it had a plug? The night was not a total loss yet. (Both kids had already spread their sleeping bags on the floor and were jumping up and down on the bed, positive that they were not tired.) I was right. This one didn't require batteries! That's because it didn't have a pump at all. You actually had to blow it up. It must have been the last one manufactured in the work and my wife bought it.
I tried telling the kids how soft and comfortable the floor looked in the vain hope they'd say, “Why father, there's no need for you to venture out into the rainy and dark night. We would be happy to camp out on the floor.”
Instead, I walked to the main lodge. Surely, they'd have the batteries and we'd back on track to a peaceful evening. I was right. They did have them. About two days ago they had them. The nearest store was a half-hour drive away and I had three tired and cranky people waiting back at the cabin.
Ok... I did consider going to get the batteries, and taking the scenic route. In case you are wondering, it is possible to blow up an air mattress. It took two aneurisms, a mild heart attack and I'm pretty sure my left eye was bleeding by the time I was done.
With the mattress blown up, the kids each on their half and fighting sleep, I told them a story. (The bag with their books was still in the back of the Prius and even though the rain had slowed, I was too lightheaded to risk the walk to the car.) I don't remember the moral of the story, but they were both silent and wide-eyed when I was done.
11:15 PM.
We'd arrived, everyone survived the trip. The veins in my temples weren't throbbing as much. Vacation officially starts tomorrow-- Hold on... “I don't want to hear any more complaining. It's time for you to sleep.. You've been whining all day. And kids, stop teasing your mother!”
Friday, July 10, 2009
On The Road
11:15 a.m.
We had one pit stop to make before we started the trip. The two dogs had to be dropped off at the kennel. Oh, and a quick stop for my wife to pick up her allergy prescription. (I don't know how she measured time, but with two kids that had put themselves in their seats and buckled them and two dogs that thought my Prius was the perfect setting for running around, it had better use nano-seconds.) On the way to the store, the whining started. We'd actually made it further than I expected. But my wife reminded everyone that this was going to be a long trip and we all needed to behave. She also told me to set a good example, so I did my best to keep the whining to a minimum.
As we pulled into the shopping center to pick up the prescription, my daughter complained from the back seat, “I can't reach Honey to pet her.”
Since we rescued Honey and Stripe, we're not sure how old she is. The people at the rescue place said she was between 10 and 12 years old. That'd put her between 70 and 84 in human years. She is also the “baby” according to my daughter. Believe it or not, I was actually ready for this. (My wife's grandmother moved in with my wife's mother and father a few years ago because she “needed” to be taken care of. I have seen this exact same scenario played out many times since she moved in. My wife's mother has specific ideas and plans, none of which seems to phase my wife's grandmother in the least.) Rather than waste my breath telling the 82 year-old mother to move closer to my daughter, I told my daughter to concentrate really hard and make her arms grow.
For a moment there was utter silence from the back seat. Then I heard a grunt. A moment later there was another louder grunt. I did a quick turn and saw my 3 year-old daughter in her car seat. Her face was turning a bright shade of red, her little hands were white-knuckled fists, her eyes closed tight in a body-metamorphosing grimace.
“Are your arms longer?”
“Not yet,” she said between clenched teeth.
“Keep trying.”
I think she grunted an ok, but her focus didn't waver at all. (I'm sure my wife's grandmother has figured this tactic out, but in case she hasn't, I'll pass it on to her. That is sure to get me and my wife in the will.)
Once the dogs were dropped off, we hit the open road. 408 miles till our destination. 20 miles into the trip, “Are we there yet?” came from the back seat.
“Yeah, are we dere yet?” his sister piped in. (Apparently, the arm growing was a success or no longer needed since the dogs were at the kennel. I'll be sure to tell my wife's grandmother that for utmost effectiveness, you have to keep the object of desire within sight. Otherwise they get easily distracted and you have to start all over.)
“No, we have a long drive before we get there. Why don't you guys close your eyes and sleep?”
“We're not tired.” They both answered before I even finished my suggestion.
“I'm hungry.” I don't know which one said this. By the time trip was over, all talking was classified as white noise.
“We'll stop for lunch at the next exit,” my wife suggested. I can only assume it was in the deluded hope that full bellies would put them to sleep.
As promised, we stopped and I took my son in for a potty break while my wife unchained our daughter. (She'd recently learned how to undo her 3000 point safety harness. This is pretty impressive since I still need the directions to make all the required hookups.) I came out of the bathroom to a disgusted look on my wife's face.
“Your daughter left her shoes.” My daughter was perched in her arms, an innocent look on her face.
“Why didn't you make her put them on before you got her out of the car?”
“At home.” The innocent smile on my daughter's face got wider.
“She doesn't have to wear them while we're driving. Just when we get out.” (This all made perfect sense to me. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to my wife's brain. She's usually not this slow.)
“YOUR daughter (now I knew I was in trouble) LEFT them at home. I PUT them on her and she TOOK them off before she got in the car to DRIVE.”
My laughing probably didn't help my wife's mood, but with my daughter's sincere nodding, I couldn't help it. We'd both been so intent of packing the car, and with the kids buckled in, we'd overlooked one small detail; my daughter is a demon spawn.
Luckily, there was a mall close by. My wife and daughter went shoe shopping (their vacation got an early start.) After lunch, shoe shopping and repacking, we were back on the road heading west.
When I pulled into the rest area to get rid of a few cups of coffee I got The Look. “Why are we stopping? We're never going to get there?”
1:15 p.m.
54 miles into the trip, my daughter's arms are longer, the dogs are kenneled, the kids are fed, my daughter is wearing purple shoes and my bladder is empty and I'm sentenced to the passenger seat while my wife takes over “competently” driving. At least I can take a nap...
We had one pit stop to make before we started the trip. The two dogs had to be dropped off at the kennel. Oh, and a quick stop for my wife to pick up her allergy prescription. (I don't know how she measured time, but with two kids that had put themselves in their seats and buckled them and two dogs that thought my Prius was the perfect setting for running around, it had better use nano-seconds.) On the way to the store, the whining started. We'd actually made it further than I expected. But my wife reminded everyone that this was going to be a long trip and we all needed to behave. She also told me to set a good example, so I did my best to keep the whining to a minimum.
As we pulled into the shopping center to pick up the prescription, my daughter complained from the back seat, “I can't reach Honey to pet her.”
Since we rescued Honey and Stripe, we're not sure how old she is. The people at the rescue place said she was between 10 and 12 years old. That'd put her between 70 and 84 in human years. She is also the “baby” according to my daughter. Believe it or not, I was actually ready for this. (My wife's grandmother moved in with my wife's mother and father a few years ago because she “needed” to be taken care of. I have seen this exact same scenario played out many times since she moved in. My wife's mother has specific ideas and plans, none of which seems to phase my wife's grandmother in the least.) Rather than waste my breath telling the 82 year-old mother to move closer to my daughter, I told my daughter to concentrate really hard and make her arms grow.
For a moment there was utter silence from the back seat. Then I heard a grunt. A moment later there was another louder grunt. I did a quick turn and saw my 3 year-old daughter in her car seat. Her face was turning a bright shade of red, her little hands were white-knuckled fists, her eyes closed tight in a body-metamorphosing grimace.
“Are your arms longer?”
“Not yet,” she said between clenched teeth.
“Keep trying.”
I think she grunted an ok, but her focus didn't waver at all. (I'm sure my wife's grandmother has figured this tactic out, but in case she hasn't, I'll pass it on to her. That is sure to get me and my wife in the will.)
Once the dogs were dropped off, we hit the open road. 408 miles till our destination. 20 miles into the trip, “Are we there yet?” came from the back seat.
“Yeah, are we dere yet?” his sister piped in. (Apparently, the arm growing was a success or no longer needed since the dogs were at the kennel. I'll be sure to tell my wife's grandmother that for utmost effectiveness, you have to keep the object of desire within sight. Otherwise they get easily distracted and you have to start all over.)
“No, we have a long drive before we get there. Why don't you guys close your eyes and sleep?”
“We're not tired.” They both answered before I even finished my suggestion.
“I'm hungry.” I don't know which one said this. By the time trip was over, all talking was classified as white noise.
“We'll stop for lunch at the next exit,” my wife suggested. I can only assume it was in the deluded hope that full bellies would put them to sleep.
As promised, we stopped and I took my son in for a potty break while my wife unchained our daughter. (She'd recently learned how to undo her 3000 point safety harness. This is pretty impressive since I still need the directions to make all the required hookups.) I came out of the bathroom to a disgusted look on my wife's face.
“Your daughter left her shoes.” My daughter was perched in her arms, an innocent look on her face.
“Why didn't you make her put them on before you got her out of the car?”
“At home.” The innocent smile on my daughter's face got wider.
“She doesn't have to wear them while we're driving. Just when we get out.” (This all made perfect sense to me. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to my wife's brain. She's usually not this slow.)
“YOUR daughter (now I knew I was in trouble) LEFT them at home. I PUT them on her and she TOOK them off before she got in the car to DRIVE.”
My laughing probably didn't help my wife's mood, but with my daughter's sincere nodding, I couldn't help it. We'd both been so intent of packing the car, and with the kids buckled in, we'd overlooked one small detail; my daughter is a demon spawn.
Luckily, there was a mall close by. My wife and daughter went shoe shopping (their vacation got an early start.) After lunch, shoe shopping and repacking, we were back on the road heading west.
When I pulled into the rest area to get rid of a few cups of coffee I got The Look. “Why are we stopping? We're never going to get there?”
1:15 p.m.
54 miles into the trip, my daughter's arms are longer, the dogs are kenneled, the kids are fed, my daughter is wearing purple shoes and my bladder is empty and I'm sentenced to the passenger seat while my wife takes over “competently” driving. At least I can take a nap...
Sunday, April 19, 2009
One Size Might Fit All
I think I’m on to something here. It’s a simple way to save the car industry, so bear with me…
I was driving home from work on Good Friday and the traffic came to a sudden stop. I managed to stop in time, the guy behind me didn’t. It wasn’t a serious accident. We both drove away. But now I have to find time to take my car to the body shop to get fixed. (I thought, for a brief second, that as soon as my motorcycle is fixed, I could drop off my car at the repair shop. Some of you might be jumping up and down, “But how will you take those two little monsters to school every morning?” I thought of that too. My son would fit behind me and there’s room on the gas tank for my daughter. They even have straps and stuff I could use to secure them. My daughter thought this was a fantastic idea. My son, apparently wise beyond his years, didn’t bother to hide his disgust at my suggestion.)
So, how did I get from endangering my kids’ lives (ok, I never really seriously considered it, but it was so much fun torturing both sets of grandparents. Even though they won’t say it, I know there’s always that thought, in the back of their minds, that I am just irresponsible enough to try it.) to another groundbreaking discovery? (Check out my article on Terrible Threes being genetically triggered.) Immediately after the accident, I didn’t really look at the damage to my car. I was more concerned with; a. Could I drive home? 2. Was my neck normally this stiff? and iii. Where did my cell phone go?
When I got home, I had my first good look at my poor car. The back left corner was no longer a corner, by the accepted definition. I started paying attention to the dents and dings on other cars. Then I relooked at my wife’s minivan. Could it be that I owed her an apology and she was, in truth, a visionary? True, the driver’s side of her minivan was relatively free of any dents.
So, what is my plan to save the auto industry? I think we should follow my wife’s example. When we bought the minivan, we were living in Washington, DC. Our daughter was on the way, so we were in major money-saving mode. There was no way a car was going to be able to handle our trips to Ohio to see the grandparents and, at that time, SUVs and minivans were at the very very very top edge of our budget. So, we bought the one minivan that we could afford, and to my surprise, my wife didn’t complain that it was too big or too wide.
I’ll give those of you that know her a few minutes to regain consciousness…. The reason she didn’t complain is, much like the women that struck out west to tame those savage lands during the pioneering days, my wife is part of a new breed. Just like those men and women made do with that they had, so does this new breed. Just look at the other cars as you drive.
Rather than spend the extra money for the smaller and thinner vehicles, especially when they might not come as small as wanted, these people are doing it themselves. I can see that clearly now. For years, my wife has suffered with too-wide cars. That is why she runs over curbs. She’s been telling Detroit to make the cars thinner (but since Akron makes the tires, I don’t think they’ll be too happy when this idea makes it mainstream. From my wife alone, they will be loosing thousands of dollars in income.) The dents in the bumper are her trying to make her minivan shorter. The huge dent on the passenger side, right where my son sits, I’m hoping is another effort at making the van fit into smaller parking spaces...
So, how can this save Detroit and the auto industry? Lack of customization. Think how much cheaper it will be to produce one size of square car and let the buyers customize the width, length, and (I’m sure my wife will soon figure out a way to do this) the height! The only problem is that I was really happy with the length of my Prius, but in that split second, I didn’t have a chance to tell this to the guy that was trying to make his car shorter.
I was driving home from work on Good Friday and the traffic came to a sudden stop. I managed to stop in time, the guy behind me didn’t. It wasn’t a serious accident. We both drove away. But now I have to find time to take my car to the body shop to get fixed. (I thought, for a brief second, that as soon as my motorcycle is fixed, I could drop off my car at the repair shop. Some of you might be jumping up and down, “But how will you take those two little monsters to school every morning?” I thought of that too. My son would fit behind me and there’s room on the gas tank for my daughter. They even have straps and stuff I could use to secure them. My daughter thought this was a fantastic idea. My son, apparently wise beyond his years, didn’t bother to hide his disgust at my suggestion.)
So, how did I get from endangering my kids’ lives (ok, I never really seriously considered it, but it was so much fun torturing both sets of grandparents. Even though they won’t say it, I know there’s always that thought, in the back of their minds, that I am just irresponsible enough to try it.) to another groundbreaking discovery? (Check out my article on Terrible Threes being genetically triggered.) Immediately after the accident, I didn’t really look at the damage to my car. I was more concerned with; a. Could I drive home? 2. Was my neck normally this stiff? and iii. Where did my cell phone go?
When I got home, I had my first good look at my poor car. The back left corner was no longer a corner, by the accepted definition. I started paying attention to the dents and dings on other cars. Then I relooked at my wife’s minivan. Could it be that I owed her an apology and she was, in truth, a visionary? True, the driver’s side of her minivan was relatively free of any dents.
So, what is my plan to save the auto industry? I think we should follow my wife’s example. When we bought the minivan, we were living in Washington, DC. Our daughter was on the way, so we were in major money-saving mode. There was no way a car was going to be able to handle our trips to Ohio to see the grandparents and, at that time, SUVs and minivans were at the very very very top edge of our budget. So, we bought the one minivan that we could afford, and to my surprise, my wife didn’t complain that it was too big or too wide.
I’ll give those of you that know her a few minutes to regain consciousness…. The reason she didn’t complain is, much like the women that struck out west to tame those savage lands during the pioneering days, my wife is part of a new breed. Just like those men and women made do with that they had, so does this new breed. Just look at the other cars as you drive.
Rather than spend the extra money for the smaller and thinner vehicles, especially when they might not come as small as wanted, these people are doing it themselves. I can see that clearly now. For years, my wife has suffered with too-wide cars. That is why she runs over curbs. She’s been telling Detroit to make the cars thinner (but since Akron makes the tires, I don’t think they’ll be too happy when this idea makes it mainstream. From my wife alone, they will be loosing thousands of dollars in income.) The dents in the bumper are her trying to make her minivan shorter. The huge dent on the passenger side, right where my son sits, I’m hoping is another effort at making the van fit into smaller parking spaces...
So, how can this save Detroit and the auto industry? Lack of customization. Think how much cheaper it will be to produce one size of square car and let the buyers customize the width, length, and (I’m sure my wife will soon figure out a way to do this) the height! The only problem is that I was really happy with the length of my Prius, but in that split second, I didn’t have a chance to tell this to the guy that was trying to make his car shorter.
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