When I was a kid, I used to watch those wildlife shows... The ones where they'd show a family of lions or something with new borns. The babies would be climbing on the father, biting his ears and making a general nuisance of themselves while he was trying to sleep. The narrator would say something like this wasn't just play, the babies were learning how to hunt through this aggressive play. After a few minutes, the father would open one eye, and the babies would continue. Eventually, he would give the babies a good swat and they'd tumble away and go rough house with each other, just long enough for the father to get comfortable and then be back.
A part of me was always surprised at that. Until this week.
We were snorkeling, all four of us. Again, my daughter was snorkeling with me. (Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy the constant soundtrack I now have with every snorkel. (“I love fishes” sung three thousand times can be very catchy, even if it is grammatically inaccurate.) My daughter is able to practice her ballet dancing, sing, point out fish, and generally go in the opposite direction I am trying to swim at the same time. So, every trip with her in an adventure.) We all headed for the small artificial reef to look for the lobsters she and I had seen the evening before.
“Look daddy, I'm dancing.”
“You can't dance in the water.” That was her brother, the realist.
“Yes I can.” To her credit, she did prove she could. The only problem was I was still trying to get my second fin on. (Recapping here... Holding a bobbing five-year old from being washed out to sea, trying to balance on one leg (with a flipper already on) and get the second flipper on and not pull all my middle-aged muscles (yes, I've finally admitted it, but I do not have gout!) is not the best way to start a morning.)
“Sit still!” Maybe I growled it louder than I intended. I'm pretty sure I caught my wife smirking (I'm pretty sure it was a full-blown smirk if I could see it through a scuba mask.).
“I lost my fin.” Actually it came out more as “I wost by bin.” (When she's snorkeling, she can enunciate clearly with her snorkel in her mouth. Any other time, like when I'm half-off balance, she's impossible to understand.
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
I caught a glimpse of blue a few feet away. Keeping one hand on her, my fins and mask in my other hand, I lunged and grabbed it (spontaneous evolution, look it up.) before the next wave pushed it further away.
This time both fins were strapped tighter. Rather than chance anything else coming off, I pushed off with one fin and started towing her to the reef. (Towing is an understatement. My wife took my daughter out one snorkel. I'm not sure how it happened. I had to go back up on the beach and get my stuff, and amazingly, that took much much much longer than I expected. After they were done, my daughter and son were fighting the waves and each other, as usual, and my wife was panting on the beach. “Your... daughter... is... heavy. Did you... know that?” “Really? I hadn't noticed.” I don't think she caught the sarcasm.) Halfway to the reef, I put the other fin on and got a better grip.
“Where are the lobsters?” My wife asked as we approached the reef. Now, she's been diving for over fifteen years. One of our hobbies while we dive is to learn the behavior of what we're watching. So, I have no idea what possessed her to lead our two impressionable children to think that the lobsters, which we'd never seen there, and this is not a big reef, would still be there.
This is about the same time my daughter swam right in front of me. I know because of the two blue fins that hit me in the face. (At least they were still both on her feet.)
“Under the water.” I probably muttered.
Both kids proceeded to dive in search of the lobsters. My son dives very well and was able to make it down the ten feet and look inside the old tires that make up the artificial reef. My daughter's version of diving is... describable. It's a several step process. First, her head goes straight down. (From everything I've read, this is the normal process for diving.) Almost at the same time, her butt goes up (think of a dolphin breaching). So, this would be great. However, she does both so well that she doesn't stop and this is where it gets interesting. Her head ends up too close to her knees, but since her butt's already in full dive mode, her knees, much to her head's frustration, disappear. Now, the only way for her head to catch up to her knees is to take a shortcut by spinning 180 degrees. This usually works for a second, before another 180 degree turn in the opposite direction is needed. While all this is happening underwater, her flippers are flailing around above the water. Anyone within five feet is sure to get kicked in the face at least once per dive. The final part of the dive is the snorkel clearing. By now, it's completely filled with sea water. (But somehow, none of the water is in her mouth. One theory is she does not stop talking/singing during the diving, but no one has had to courage to get close enough to verify this.) Clearing the snorkel involves a quick scamper up my back, and a few minutes of readjusting. Then back into the water for another dive.
After about ten minutes of blue and yellow flippers (my son) zipping around me and kicking me in the face and body, I remembered the father lion and his cubs. In case you are wondering, no I didn't swat them... barely.
Showing posts with label Vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vacation. Show all posts
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Sleeping
“Hurry up, Daddy, she's sleeping weird again,” my son yelled in an almost whisper as he came running onto the porch.
See, last year, we went on vacation to Saint Croix. Both kids had realized they were born with an set of gills. They spent the first day of their vacation in the water, or marginally below the surf, depending on the size of the wave. That first night, both kids didn't just fall alseep, they crashed big time. My daughter managed a joint-dislocating sprawl that had to be immortalized digitally. The next morning, I got a one (of many) lectures from her on how I was not supposed to take pictures when she was sleeping. (Of course that only made me take more).
This time, after getting up at 3 am, flying around the world four and a half times, keeping track of her brother and her mother and a quick dip in the ocean, my daughter was more than ready to go to bed early. As I do every night, I checked on her after a couple of hours and was not surprised that she was sleeping across the bed (Up and down don't really have a serious meaning for her) her arms flailed out. Obviously, with full understanding of the coming lecture, I had to take her picture.
The next morning, she was thrilled with her picture. I was ordered to take a picture every night so she could see how funny she was. (Yes, she's a bit of an actress/drama queen. She gets that from her mother)
Well... After three days of snorkeling, fighting waves, playing the sand and turning into native islanders, both kids went beyond exhausted and fell asleep and did not move last night. When my daughter asked to see her picture, I explained they were both too boring and needed to step up their game tonight.
That's why my son was so happy that his sister was sleeping weird.
We started the day fairly quietly. A trip to Cane Bay, snorkeling, playing in the water and the sand. A lunch thrown in for when everyone got hungry. It sounded like a perfect plan. We got to the bay and immediately, both kids perked up. WAVES. Last year, Cane Bay had the “sweetest waves, baby” according to my son. This was right after a hurricane passed by and the waves were tall (and solid. Apparently, when a wave starts that far away, it picks up sand and these were very reluctant to let that sand go until they hit me.)
Both kids raced to the water and began the age old battle of kid against element. While they were engaged in their warfare against the evil waves, my wife decided to snorkel out and see how the visibility was. About the time she got beyond the initial breakers, both kids decided they were ready to snorkel too. Somehow, I got to take my daughter. I loaded her up with her snorkel vest (and blew it up, in case you are wondering.) put her fins on her and tightened them up and got her mask and snorkel arranged. Then, holding on to her, so the current wouldn't drag her to another island, I managed to get my fins (in case you have never tried, getting fins on, holding a five-year who thinks she can swim as fast as a fish, but hasn't quit grasped that keeping the snorkel in your mouth helps the whole breathing underwater thing, keeping your balance as waves pummel you and the current drags you down the beach is a challenging endeavor. Adding in your wife laughing definitely does not improve the situation.) and my mask on.
One final check to make sure she was ready and my daughter and I started out for the reefs. This was accomplished by my daughter spinning around in circles to look at the fish, the rocks, the sand-pretty much anything that moved, while I pulled her along through the waves and current. After what felt like three hours of towing an anchor (I'm going to rent my daughter out to the American Olympic swimming team, or whichever country offers the most money, to improve their conditioning.) we made it past all the waves and over the reefs. My daughter was still spinning, but now she was adding in her own commentary (in all likelihood, the commentary never stopped, I just couldn't hear it while I was having the embolism and towing her to the calm water.)
So, to recap:
Getting Daughter ready to snorkel-10 minutes.
Getting my stuff on while holding daughter-2 minutes and several pulled muscles
Getting daughter past waves and current to see reef-10 minutes and embolism (but great cardio)
Daughter getting cold and wanting to go back to the beach-1 minute.
We finished the day with hermit crab races. Apparently it is a huge weekly event for the kids (and the adults that have spent the day drinking). Each “kid” picked a crab, named it and got their parent or non-drunk friend to hand over two dollars. The crabs were all put into a five-gallon bucket and after all the bars sponsoring the event were named, the bucket was turned over and the crabs ran for safety. Unfortunately for the crabs, they were surrounded by kids who'd spent the entire day in the water and adults who'd spent the past two hours, in a bar, waiting for the crab races to start. The only safe place was the center of the circle. My daughter's crab knew this and didn't move. The rest of the crabs were not as smart and headed for danger.
“I'll never win a crab race.” my daughter lamented from my shoulders as I carried her to our rental car after all the prizes had been given out.
“I saw your crab (let's be honest, out of a couple hundred hermit crabs, all piled in a heap, there is no way I was going to be able to see one crab, but this is an allowable parental lie. “No, I didn't eat the last of the Doritos, your brother did.” is not, according to my wife.) and he tried his best.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to win a crab race,” I could feel her shoulders slump under the burden of defeat. I had no idea that her only goal in life had been to become a champion hermit crab racer, and how she had been dealt a serious blow to that dream.
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah, but I didn't win.”
“Want to try again next week.”
I felt her perk up a bit. “Yes! I will win next week, I just have to keep trying.”
Another recap:
Day of snorkeling-Daddy mild embolism
Hermit crab races-Daddy second mild embolism carrying daughter to car.
After years of parenthood, I was sure both kids would step up their game sleeping tonight. The only problem was I had to make sure all the cameras were hidden before I went to sleep...
See, last year, we went on vacation to Saint Croix. Both kids had realized they were born with an set of gills. They spent the first day of their vacation in the water, or marginally below the surf, depending on the size of the wave. That first night, both kids didn't just fall alseep, they crashed big time. My daughter managed a joint-dislocating sprawl that had to be immortalized digitally. The next morning, I got a one (of many) lectures from her on how I was not supposed to take pictures when she was sleeping. (Of course that only made me take more).
This time, after getting up at 3 am, flying around the world four and a half times, keeping track of her brother and her mother and a quick dip in the ocean, my daughter was more than ready to go to bed early. As I do every night, I checked on her after a couple of hours and was not surprised that she was sleeping across the bed (Up and down don't really have a serious meaning for her) her arms flailed out. Obviously, with full understanding of the coming lecture, I had to take her picture.
The next morning, she was thrilled with her picture. I was ordered to take a picture every night so she could see how funny she was. (Yes, she's a bit of an actress/drama queen. She gets that from her mother)
Well... After three days of snorkeling, fighting waves, playing the sand and turning into native islanders, both kids went beyond exhausted and fell asleep and did not move last night. When my daughter asked to see her picture, I explained they were both too boring and needed to step up their game tonight.
That's why my son was so happy that his sister was sleeping weird.
We started the day fairly quietly. A trip to Cane Bay, snorkeling, playing in the water and the sand. A lunch thrown in for when everyone got hungry. It sounded like a perfect plan. We got to the bay and immediately, both kids perked up. WAVES. Last year, Cane Bay had the “sweetest waves, baby” according to my son. This was right after a hurricane passed by and the waves were tall (and solid. Apparently, when a wave starts that far away, it picks up sand and these were very reluctant to let that sand go until they hit me.)
Both kids raced to the water and began the age old battle of kid against element. While they were engaged in their warfare against the evil waves, my wife decided to snorkel out and see how the visibility was. About the time she got beyond the initial breakers, both kids decided they were ready to snorkel too. Somehow, I got to take my daughter. I loaded her up with her snorkel vest (and blew it up, in case you are wondering.) put her fins on her and tightened them up and got her mask and snorkel arranged. Then, holding on to her, so the current wouldn't drag her to another island, I managed to get my fins (in case you have never tried, getting fins on, holding a five-year who thinks she can swim as fast as a fish, but hasn't quit grasped that keeping the snorkel in your mouth helps the whole breathing underwater thing, keeping your balance as waves pummel you and the current drags you down the beach is a challenging endeavor. Adding in your wife laughing definitely does not improve the situation.) and my mask on.
One final check to make sure she was ready and my daughter and I started out for the reefs. This was accomplished by my daughter spinning around in circles to look at the fish, the rocks, the sand-pretty much anything that moved, while I pulled her along through the waves and current. After what felt like three hours of towing an anchor (I'm going to rent my daughter out to the American Olympic swimming team, or whichever country offers the most money, to improve their conditioning.) we made it past all the waves and over the reefs. My daughter was still spinning, but now she was adding in her own commentary (in all likelihood, the commentary never stopped, I just couldn't hear it while I was having the embolism and towing her to the calm water.)
So, to recap:
Getting Daughter ready to snorkel-10 minutes.
Getting my stuff on while holding daughter-2 minutes and several pulled muscles
Getting daughter past waves and current to see reef-10 minutes and embolism (but great cardio)
Daughter getting cold and wanting to go back to the beach-1 minute.
We finished the day with hermit crab races. Apparently it is a huge weekly event for the kids (and the adults that have spent the day drinking). Each “kid” picked a crab, named it and got their parent or non-drunk friend to hand over two dollars. The crabs were all put into a five-gallon bucket and after all the bars sponsoring the event were named, the bucket was turned over and the crabs ran for safety. Unfortunately for the crabs, they were surrounded by kids who'd spent the entire day in the water and adults who'd spent the past two hours, in a bar, waiting for the crab races to start. The only safe place was the center of the circle. My daughter's crab knew this and didn't move. The rest of the crabs were not as smart and headed for danger.
“I'll never win a crab race.” my daughter lamented from my shoulders as I carried her to our rental car after all the prizes had been given out.
“I saw your crab (let's be honest, out of a couple hundred hermit crabs, all piled in a heap, there is no way I was going to be able to see one crab, but this is an allowable parental lie. “No, I didn't eat the last of the Doritos, your brother did.” is not, according to my wife.) and he tried his best.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to win a crab race,” I could feel her shoulders slump under the burden of defeat. I had no idea that her only goal in life had been to become a champion hermit crab racer, and how she had been dealt a serious blow to that dream.
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah, but I didn't win.”
“Want to try again next week.”
I felt her perk up a bit. “Yes! I will win next week, I just have to keep trying.”
Another recap:
Day of snorkeling-Daddy mild embolism
Hermit crab races-Daddy second mild embolism carrying daughter to car.
After years of parenthood, I was sure both kids would step up their game sleeping tonight. The only problem was I had to make sure all the cameras were hidden before I went to sleep...
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Rocks
“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.
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.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Getting There and Back
“Can you print off directions to the airport?” I'm pretty much positive those were my wife's last words as she wandered off to bed. We were leaving for the airport at 4:00 am for a 6:45 am flight. The minivan was already packed with the suitcases. (the kids each had their own, plus one suitcase of food ((since we were going to the uncivilized U.S. Virgin Island of St. Croix, we had to take along enough food to last us a week in the wilds...)) a suitcase of toys ((As everyone knows, toys only exist in the U.S. Propper)) and our snorkeling gear. Our suitcase was still being filled with whatever had been forgotten.)
Before I fell asleep, I printed the plane tickets, hotel information and a map to the airport. It wasn't until we'd started off that I realized “Can you print off directions to the airport.” actually meant “and be sure to include the directions I followed a long time ago that included going down, I think, Interstate 70.... or maybe it was 79... but in any case I'm positive it wasn't the way you printed.”
Even with my bad directions, we made it to airport (at 4 am, there isn't a whole of traffic on the road and driving on two wheels around the corners tends to open the lane in front of you...)
Once we'd made it through security, we were off to the races. My wife asked which gate we needed to go to. When I traveled for work, gates actually had a meaning. They were a nice stroll between flights where you could stop for a beer or a coffee (depending on the time of day and how rough the previous flight was.). Sometime over the past several years, that has changed. I now know all airports only have two actual gates. The one you just arrived at and the one you have to drag two tired kids and their bags to. The distance between them is exactly inverse to how tired the kids are and how soon the next flight leaves.
At San Juan, my wife had the nerve to ask where the gate was. Our connecting flight left at 12:15, our flight, running a wee bit late, arrived at 12:15. The kids had been up since 3:30 a.m. And hadn't taken a nap. According to my calculations, the gate for our connecting flight was located, roughly, in Alaska.
To my surprise, we did make the connecting flight and arrived in St. Croix to start our vacation in the sun.
After a week of “island time” there's a slight chance we cut it a wee bit close getting back to the airport. The U.S. Air person that checked us in was very clear (I think if she hadn't spent 15 minutes stressing how late we were and how we would probably not make it through customs, we wouldn't have had to run so fast.) that the plane was on the verge of leaving and customs alone would take a minimum of two weeks.
So, we each grabbed a kid and bags and ran. After a harrowing 10 minute race through customs, security, another bag check, a game of scrabble (just checking to see if you are paying attention) we made it to the gate on St. Croix. My wife and kids were cleared and I got the dreaded “Do you mind if we check your carry on?” from the security guard. I waved a tearful goodbye to my family and wondered if I could somehow make another flight, this week. After my carry on was swabbed (it didn't even get a drink first.) I raced to the gate (ok. It was just around the corner and my family was always visible. But it sounded much more dramatic.)
“Our plane hasn't arrived yet.” You'd be surprised at just how clearly the swear words came out as my wife greeted me.
In San Juan, my wife asked which gate again. I muttered “Alaska,” and hoisted my daughter up on my shoulders. We arrived at gate 4 and had to get to gate 8. A mere 4 gates, you might be thinking, but you forget the letter. We arrived in concourse D and had to get to gate Epsilon. (I'm pretty sure we wandered through the entire Russian alphabet before we hit Latin.)
After quite a few hours, several hundred miles of airport terminals, we made it back to Pennsylvania and to the minivan. In all, there were only a few melt-downs, but the kids ignored them. The only question as I left the airport was, “Why was everyone driving on the wrong side of the road?”
Before I fell asleep, I printed the plane tickets, hotel information and a map to the airport. It wasn't until we'd started off that I realized “Can you print off directions to the airport.” actually meant “and be sure to include the directions I followed a long time ago that included going down, I think, Interstate 70.... or maybe it was 79... but in any case I'm positive it wasn't the way you printed.”
Even with my bad directions, we made it to airport (at 4 am, there isn't a whole of traffic on the road and driving on two wheels around the corners tends to open the lane in front of you...)
Once we'd made it through security, we were off to the races. My wife asked which gate we needed to go to. When I traveled for work, gates actually had a meaning. They were a nice stroll between flights where you could stop for a beer or a coffee (depending on the time of day and how rough the previous flight was.). Sometime over the past several years, that has changed. I now know all airports only have two actual gates. The one you just arrived at and the one you have to drag two tired kids and their bags to. The distance between them is exactly inverse to how tired the kids are and how soon the next flight leaves.
At San Juan, my wife had the nerve to ask where the gate was. Our connecting flight left at 12:15, our flight, running a wee bit late, arrived at 12:15. The kids had been up since 3:30 a.m. And hadn't taken a nap. According to my calculations, the gate for our connecting flight was located, roughly, in Alaska.
To my surprise, we did make the connecting flight and arrived in St. Croix to start our vacation in the sun.
After a week of “island time” there's a slight chance we cut it a wee bit close getting back to the airport. The U.S. Air person that checked us in was very clear (I think if she hadn't spent 15 minutes stressing how late we were and how we would probably not make it through customs, we wouldn't have had to run so fast.) that the plane was on the verge of leaving and customs alone would take a minimum of two weeks.
So, we each grabbed a kid and bags and ran. After a harrowing 10 minute race through customs, security, another bag check, a game of scrabble (just checking to see if you are paying attention) we made it to the gate on St. Croix. My wife and kids were cleared and I got the dreaded “Do you mind if we check your carry on?” from the security guard. I waved a tearful goodbye to my family and wondered if I could somehow make another flight, this week. After my carry on was swabbed (it didn't even get a drink first.) I raced to the gate (ok. It was just around the corner and my family was always visible. But it sounded much more dramatic.)
“Our plane hasn't arrived yet.” You'd be surprised at just how clearly the swear words came out as my wife greeted me.
In San Juan, my wife asked which gate again. I muttered “Alaska,” and hoisted my daughter up on my shoulders. We arrived at gate 4 and had to get to gate 8. A mere 4 gates, you might be thinking, but you forget the letter. We arrived in concourse D and had to get to gate Epsilon. (I'm pretty sure we wandered through the entire Russian alphabet before we hit Latin.)
After quite a few hours, several hundred miles of airport terminals, we made it back to Pennsylvania and to the minivan. In all, there were only a few melt-downs, but the kids ignored them. The only question as I left the airport was, “Why was everyone driving on the wrong side of the road?”
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...
Vacation
It's been so long since we've gone on a real vacation, that I had some serious concerns as we began our trip. After this summer, we'd (my wife) decided that taking the kids south would be a good idea as winter threatened our western Pennsylvania area. We (my wife) spent countless hour searching for the best prices, snorkeling and family friendly place. We (my wife) carefully planned the itinerary and booked the flights.
After all this preparation, we were definitely ready for the trip to St. Croix. It was still in the United States, so we didn't need to find our passports. As we were driving the rental jeep, my wife pointed to the price for gas and mentioned it wasn't that expensive. I agreed and added as long as it wasn't in liters. This prompted a rather long lecture that gas prices were regulated. (being a wise husband, I just nodded and did not point out that I was pretty sure which side of the road you drove on was regulated too. Nor did I add that in Canada, which is much closer to us, they drive on the correct side of the road but use liters. In case you are wondering, there are 3.8 liters in a gallon. I learned this in public restrooms where they proudly proclaim how much water is used in every flush. That is the only place I've ever seen the metric system used. You can draw your own conclusion about how effective it is.)
But I digress...
My wife and I had both been working too many hours lately. My daughter's comment to my wife that daddy always works on vacation pretty much proved that point. So, I was concerned, would I be able to put aside work? How would I know when the vacation started? Before kids, when we went on scuba diving trips, the vacation started on the first dive. True, were were going to be snorkeling, but I'm pretty sure taking a five-year on her first real snorkeling trip is not considered a vacation for the parent responsible.
Well, this morning when I got up, I knew vacation had started. My daughter was sitting on the ceramic floor, a bowl of cereal on one side, a cup of yogurt on the other. She'd perched herself on a pillow and was watching a cartoon while patiently waiting for the rest of her clan to get moving. And, she was all ready for the water. She had her pink swimming goggles on. And nothing else. That sight, her blonde hair sticking out from the goggle straps (My daughter, if you haven't gathered from the other articles is rather un-subtle. It doesn't matter how tight the goggles were, she wanted them on, and they were going to go on.) food within easy reach and her general contentment with the world told me we were on island time.
“Wow...” I never knew how awe sounded under water until my son saw his first blue tang. It'd taken a few tries to get used to the salt water and surf. Once that was sorted out, we followed the directions the dive shop gave us to the reef. (“Out there...”) “Did you see that?” my son asked as we treaded water. (He treaded, I stood with the tip of a flipper on the bottom and kept his head above the waves.)
“Ready to see more?”
“You bet!” and he was off.
The next twenty minutes were exclamations and pointing as different colored fish swam under us. Afterwards, we continued a tradition that my wife and I had done since we started scuba diving. We went through the fish identification and found what we'd seen and wrote the date next to each fish.
After all this preparation, we were definitely ready for the trip to St. Croix. It was still in the United States, so we didn't need to find our passports. As we were driving the rental jeep, my wife pointed to the price for gas and mentioned it wasn't that expensive. I agreed and added as long as it wasn't in liters. This prompted a rather long lecture that gas prices were regulated. (being a wise husband, I just nodded and did not point out that I was pretty sure which side of the road you drove on was regulated too. Nor did I add that in Canada, which is much closer to us, they drive on the correct side of the road but use liters. In case you are wondering, there are 3.8 liters in a gallon. I learned this in public restrooms where they proudly proclaim how much water is used in every flush. That is the only place I've ever seen the metric system used. You can draw your own conclusion about how effective it is.)
But I digress...
My wife and I had both been working too many hours lately. My daughter's comment to my wife that daddy always works on vacation pretty much proved that point. So, I was concerned, would I be able to put aside work? How would I know when the vacation started? Before kids, when we went on scuba diving trips, the vacation started on the first dive. True, were were going to be snorkeling, but I'm pretty sure taking a five-year on her first real snorkeling trip is not considered a vacation for the parent responsible.
Well, this morning when I got up, I knew vacation had started. My daughter was sitting on the ceramic floor, a bowl of cereal on one side, a cup of yogurt on the other. She'd perched herself on a pillow and was watching a cartoon while patiently waiting for the rest of her clan to get moving. And, she was all ready for the water. She had her pink swimming goggles on. And nothing else. That sight, her blonde hair sticking out from the goggle straps (My daughter, if you haven't gathered from the other articles is rather un-subtle. It doesn't matter how tight the goggles were, she wanted them on, and they were going to go on.) food within easy reach and her general contentment with the world told me we were on island time.
“Wow...” I never knew how awe sounded under water until my son saw his first blue tang. It'd taken a few tries to get used to the salt water and surf. Once that was sorted out, we followed the directions the dive shop gave us to the reef. (“Out there...”) “Did you see that?” my son asked as we treaded water. (He treaded, I stood with the tip of a flipper on the bottom and kept his head above the waves.)
“Ready to see more?”
“You bet!” and he was off.
The next twenty minutes were exclamations and pointing as different colored fish swam under us. Afterwards, we continued a tradition that my wife and I had done since we started scuba diving. We went through the fish identification and found what we'd seen and wrote the date next to each fish.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Amnesia
My daughter is crazy.
I guess I should qualify that statement: Either my daughter is crazy or I've completely blanked out her baby-hood and my wife is way more relaxed that I ever suspected.
This realization came at the end our vacation. We'd spent the day at a beach on Lake Erie (yeah, I was surprised too.) snorkeling and playing in the sand. This summer, both our kids became amphibians. My daughter, never to let her brother out-do her has been trying to keep up with him. This has caused no end of gasps and frantic dives across the neighborhood pool as she simply dropped out of the Wal-Mart inner tube. She has her own swimming stroke, which can best be described as a cross between a graceful mermaid gliding effortlessly through the water, a semi-truck hell bent on reaching it's destination and an octopus that has suddenly realized it has 6 more arms than normal creatures and hasn't quite figured out how to make them all work together. Oh yeah, and she spirals while she swims.
We'd tried all week to find a good place to snorkel. My son kept asking and even when the only place we could find was the normal Ohio Lake Erie murky water, he loved it. My daughter proclaimed, “I ta tish!” (I saw fish, if you don't speak snorkel.) She also saw a mermaid, forever silencing all the anti-mermaid critics. (The fact that we were standing in three feet of water and I couldn't see my hand as soon as it was under water shows just how deep the anti-mermaid conspiracy runs)
Well the last day of vacation, we found The Beach. The water was crystal clear, for Ohio. Visibility was an astounding ten feet. Both kids finally really Saw. Our quick stop to check it out turned into several hours and my son dragging first me then my wife out to swim over the coral reef. (To a seven year-old on his first real snorkel, a bunch of seaweed (or whatever it's called in Lake Erie) looks like a coral reef.)
We finally pried them out of the water and de-sanded them and went for a late lunch. As we were eating, my son listed his favorite things from the vacation in order. Between bites, my daughter chimed in also. This isn't what convinced me she is crazy, also though it does support the conclusion. (When she is eating, she is single-minded, just check out the last article.) No, what convinced me was when I checked to see if she was listening. Her consistent “Yes,” to every question lead me to believe she was already asleep and it just hadn't reached her mouth yet. So, I added, “I really liked when we went sky diving.”
The got a little pause as she looked up with a disgusted look on her little face. “We didn't go skydiving this week, daddy,” she said in her daddy-you-are-a-moron-but-I-still-love-you-and-hope-I-didn’t-get-too-many-of-your-genes tone of voice.
Well, at least she was still awake. Then she patted my arm and said, “When I was a baby, we went sky diving. You and me.”
“We did?”
A simple nod put the matter to rest in her eyes.
“What else did we do when you were a baby, that I've forgotten?” (Trust me, I can spin a pretty good yarn, but nothing compared to what she pulled out next...)
“We climbed the Rocky Mountains.”
“Oh?”
Another nod as she dipped a french fry in her ketchup, also known as dippy. (My daughter is the queen of dipping. It doesn't matter what she's eating as long as there's something to dip it in.)
Then she pointed to the tartar sauce for her fish and explained, “This is called 'pretend sand' in Africa.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, not all dippy is pretend sand in Africa.”
“What's not?”
“Ketchup.”
“What about salsa?”
“That's pretend sand.”
“French fries?”
“Gorsh.” The amazing thing, she didn't even pause...
“How about fish?”
“Neenee.”
“And how do you know African?”
Another pat on my shoulder, between bites of gorsh. “When I was a baby, we went there, you and me, daddy.”
Everyone has warned me that when my daughter mutates into a teenager, I am in trouble. They go on and on about how I won't understand her or be able to talk to her. Until this past week, I'd put their comments down to exaggeration. Now, I'm not so sure. On the one hand, she's already speaking a language I don't. On the other hand, apparently I'm a pretty cool dad cause I've already taken her skydiving and mountain climbing and to Africa. (I was afraid to ask why we went to Africa with my wife sitting. After all, she's obviously laid enough back to let me do all these things, but I don't want to push the limits until I've been fully briefed by my daughter on all our antics.)
I guess I should qualify that statement: Either my daughter is crazy or I've completely blanked out her baby-hood and my wife is way more relaxed that I ever suspected.
This realization came at the end our vacation. We'd spent the day at a beach on Lake Erie (yeah, I was surprised too.) snorkeling and playing in the sand. This summer, both our kids became amphibians. My daughter, never to let her brother out-do her has been trying to keep up with him. This has caused no end of gasps and frantic dives across the neighborhood pool as she simply dropped out of the Wal-Mart inner tube. She has her own swimming stroke, which can best be described as a cross between a graceful mermaid gliding effortlessly through the water, a semi-truck hell bent on reaching it's destination and an octopus that has suddenly realized it has 6 more arms than normal creatures and hasn't quite figured out how to make them all work together. Oh yeah, and she spirals while she swims.
We'd tried all week to find a good place to snorkel. My son kept asking and even when the only place we could find was the normal Ohio Lake Erie murky water, he loved it. My daughter proclaimed, “I ta tish!” (I saw fish, if you don't speak snorkel.) She also saw a mermaid, forever silencing all the anti-mermaid critics. (The fact that we were standing in three feet of water and I couldn't see my hand as soon as it was under water shows just how deep the anti-mermaid conspiracy runs)
Well the last day of vacation, we found The Beach. The water was crystal clear, for Ohio. Visibility was an astounding ten feet. Both kids finally really Saw. Our quick stop to check it out turned into several hours and my son dragging first me then my wife out to swim over the coral reef. (To a seven year-old on his first real snorkel, a bunch of seaweed (or whatever it's called in Lake Erie) looks like a coral reef.)
We finally pried them out of the water and de-sanded them and went for a late lunch. As we were eating, my son listed his favorite things from the vacation in order. Between bites, my daughter chimed in also. This isn't what convinced me she is crazy, also though it does support the conclusion. (When she is eating, she is single-minded, just check out the last article.) No, what convinced me was when I checked to see if she was listening. Her consistent “Yes,” to every question lead me to believe she was already asleep and it just hadn't reached her mouth yet. So, I added, “I really liked when we went sky diving.”
The got a little pause as she looked up with a disgusted look on her little face. “We didn't go skydiving this week, daddy,” she said in her daddy-you-are-a-moron-but-I-still-love-you-and-hope-I-didn’t-get-too-many-of-your-genes tone of voice.
Well, at least she was still awake. Then she patted my arm and said, “When I was a baby, we went sky diving. You and me.”
“We did?”
A simple nod put the matter to rest in her eyes.
“What else did we do when you were a baby, that I've forgotten?” (Trust me, I can spin a pretty good yarn, but nothing compared to what she pulled out next...)
“We climbed the Rocky Mountains.”
“Oh?”
Another nod as she dipped a french fry in her ketchup, also known as dippy. (My daughter is the queen of dipping. It doesn't matter what she's eating as long as there's something to dip it in.)
Then she pointed to the tartar sauce for her fish and explained, “This is called 'pretend sand' in Africa.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, not all dippy is pretend sand in Africa.”
“What's not?”
“Ketchup.”
“What about salsa?”
“That's pretend sand.”
“French fries?”
“Gorsh.” The amazing thing, she didn't even pause...
“How about fish?”
“Neenee.”
“And how do you know African?”
Another pat on my shoulder, between bites of gorsh. “When I was a baby, we went there, you and me, daddy.”
Everyone has warned me that when my daughter mutates into a teenager, I am in trouble. They go on and on about how I won't understand her or be able to talk to her. Until this past week, I'd put their comments down to exaggeration. Now, I'm not so sure. On the one hand, she's already speaking a language I don't. On the other hand, apparently I'm a pretty cool dad cause I've already taken her skydiving and mountain climbing and to Africa. (I was afraid to ask why we went to Africa with my wife sitting. After all, she's obviously laid enough back to let me do all these things, but I don't want to push the limits until I've been fully briefed by my daughter on all our antics.)
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...
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Vacation
9:00 a.m.
I knew the kids were ready for the vacation when they were both sitting in their car seats and had buckled themselves in. The only problem was I was still packing the car for the trip. For the past week, they'd been smuggling toys into the car each morning on the way to school. “Daddy, are we going on vacation today?” one of them would ask.
“No, that's next week.”
“Well... can we put these toys in so we don't forget them?”
By the day we actually left, there was just enough room for them to squeeze in and buckle their seat belts.
Being a ecologically aware family, and with the price of gas starting to climb again, we were taking the Prius on this trip to Indiana. The directions said seven hours for the trip. That was the Iron Bladder rating. The Parents With Two Kids in a Cramped Car rating should have been listed as an easy ten hours.
The Prius, while great on gas mileage, surprisingly is not one of the more spacious cars there is. Back when gas prices were double what they are now, we decided to use it rather than the minivan for the long trips. We got a roof top bag made of the space-age silver material that had the same effect on my Prius as plaid shorts, black socks and sandals do on men at the beach.
My wife and I have a system for packing. She sets aside the things we will need to survive the trip, everything else is fair game. So when I packed the bag for the top of the car, I packed the bag. Since a roof rack would eat up precious gas mileage, I used the straps that NASA uses to secure the Space Shuttle prior to launch. (These are rated for everything from shuttle securing to rooftop car bags, but surprisingly they are not designed for hammocks. See the previous article for proof.) (I'm one of those people you see at Lowes that uses at least as much twine as the weight of the load. To this date, I have never had anything fly off the top of my car. (There was the time two summers ago the we almost lost a load of lumber out of the back of my wife's minivan. But iot wasn't on top of the minivan and was more a result of poor planning. I thought my friend would be more than enough of a counter-balance. In my defense, the plan was working perfectly until we hit the bump. If he hadn't started yelling and scrambling off, it would have been a moot point. Luckily, slamming the brakes on resettled all the lumber.)) So, when I used the ratchets to tighten down those two straps, they were tight. A tornado would hot have moved that bag off the roof of my car.
So, with the roof bag on and full of my stuff, the kids clothes, sleeping bags, blow up mattresses and anything else that didn't crack, crumble or scream as I stuffed it in, we were almost ready. We only needed to pack the trip essentials, (Games for the kids. My wife spoils them. The only game I would pack is “Look out the Window or Sleep.” But she has coloring books and crayons, magnets, stuffed animals and books. If I hadn't put my foot down, we would have somehow fit a ping pong table in. My logic that they couldn't play while belted in finally won over.) my wife's clothes and the cooler with food.
Three trips later, I had all of her stuff. It was too late to put a towing hitch on my car, (besides, I think the extra weight of the hitch would have me pulling wheelies all the time.) so it was time for hard decisions. My first thought was to take out the kid seats (and the kids), there was plenty of room in the back seat for all her stuff. But I was reminded that this was a family vacation and apparently the kids are a key part of the whole “family” thing.
In the end, we trimmed my wife's essentials down to one suitcase. The back of the Prius was loaded up, all the available space filled in. We just needed to load the two dogs and drop them off at the kennel and we'd be on our way. The only problem was, the last trip we'd taken and brought a dog was when we had our miniature schnauzer. Honey was twice his size, but thought she was half his size. Stripe didn't really care.
After one last check and locking the doors, we were ready to leave. I looked at my family in the car. Faces shining with eagerness. I opened the driver's door to get in. Honey was wedged in front of the seat, ready to hit the gas for me. My wife was trying to pull her back to the passenger side. Stripe was sprawled across both kids in the back seat. My daughter was pushing him toward my son. My son was pushing him toward my daughter. Stripe didn't seem to notice.
11:00 a.m.
Only 10 more hours till we hit the cabin...
I knew the kids were ready for the vacation when they were both sitting in their car seats and had buckled themselves in. The only problem was I was still packing the car for the trip. For the past week, they'd been smuggling toys into the car each morning on the way to school. “Daddy, are we going on vacation today?” one of them would ask.
“No, that's next week.”
“Well... can we put these toys in so we don't forget them?”
By the day we actually left, there was just enough room for them to squeeze in and buckle their seat belts.
Being a ecologically aware family, and with the price of gas starting to climb again, we were taking the Prius on this trip to Indiana. The directions said seven hours for the trip. That was the Iron Bladder rating. The Parents With Two Kids in a Cramped Car rating should have been listed as an easy ten hours.
The Prius, while great on gas mileage, surprisingly is not one of the more spacious cars there is. Back when gas prices were double what they are now, we decided to use it rather than the minivan for the long trips. We got a roof top bag made of the space-age silver material that had the same effect on my Prius as plaid shorts, black socks and sandals do on men at the beach.
My wife and I have a system for packing. She sets aside the things we will need to survive the trip, everything else is fair game. So when I packed the bag for the top of the car, I packed the bag. Since a roof rack would eat up precious gas mileage, I used the straps that NASA uses to secure the Space Shuttle prior to launch. (These are rated for everything from shuttle securing to rooftop car bags, but surprisingly they are not designed for hammocks. See the previous article for proof.) (I'm one of those people you see at Lowes that uses at least as much twine as the weight of the load. To this date, I have never had anything fly off the top of my car. (There was the time two summers ago the we almost lost a load of lumber out of the back of my wife's minivan. But iot wasn't on top of the minivan and was more a result of poor planning. I thought my friend would be more than enough of a counter-balance. In my defense, the plan was working perfectly until we hit the bump. If he hadn't started yelling and scrambling off, it would have been a moot point. Luckily, slamming the brakes on resettled all the lumber.)) So, when I used the ratchets to tighten down those two straps, they were tight. A tornado would hot have moved that bag off the roof of my car.
So, with the roof bag on and full of my stuff, the kids clothes, sleeping bags, blow up mattresses and anything else that didn't crack, crumble or scream as I stuffed it in, we were almost ready. We only needed to pack the trip essentials, (Games for the kids. My wife spoils them. The only game I would pack is “Look out the Window or Sleep.” But she has coloring books and crayons, magnets, stuffed animals and books. If I hadn't put my foot down, we would have somehow fit a ping pong table in. My logic that they couldn't play while belted in finally won over.) my wife's clothes and the cooler with food.
Three trips later, I had all of her stuff. It was too late to put a towing hitch on my car, (besides, I think the extra weight of the hitch would have me pulling wheelies all the time.) so it was time for hard decisions. My first thought was to take out the kid seats (and the kids), there was plenty of room in the back seat for all her stuff. But I was reminded that this was a family vacation and apparently the kids are a key part of the whole “family” thing.
In the end, we trimmed my wife's essentials down to one suitcase. The back of the Prius was loaded up, all the available space filled in. We just needed to load the two dogs and drop them off at the kennel and we'd be on our way. The only problem was, the last trip we'd taken and brought a dog was when we had our miniature schnauzer. Honey was twice his size, but thought she was half his size. Stripe didn't really care.
After one last check and locking the doors, we were ready to leave. I looked at my family in the car. Faces shining with eagerness. I opened the driver's door to get in. Honey was wedged in front of the seat, ready to hit the gas for me. My wife was trying to pull her back to the passenger side. Stripe was sprawled across both kids in the back seat. My daughter was pushing him toward my son. My son was pushing him toward my daughter. Stripe didn't seem to notice.
11:00 a.m.
Only 10 more hours till we hit the cabin...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
