Strapped with Memories

At one time during our drive to the end of the universe and back, Bryce let out a moanful wail that almost caused me to swerve off the road. He was complaining about his back being hot and itchy, and I'm sure it was. He had been strapped in his carseat for about 3 hours without a break, and it got me to thinking about the car trips we would take as kids. My dad would fold down the back seats in the station wagon and we would have the entire expanse of the car to roam around in. Like this, only moving.



On one such car trip, my dad took my brother and I to a New York Yankees game. On bat day. With our paid admission, we each received a regulation size Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Mine was signed by Micky Mantle. The year we went was Mick's last good year. He played all nine innings and hit a home run. This was one of my fondest memories from childhood because at the time I lived and breathed Yankee baseball. I slept with my baseball glove under my pillow and dreamed about the day I stepped up to the plate at Yankee Stadium.



One of the things that made this trip really cool was that from the time I was born until about the age of 7, my dad had a series of jobs that kept him away from the family for months at a time. He would come home for a few weeks, then leave again. The trip we took to the ball game was the beginning of his being home more. Up until this time, he had a job in a monitoring station in Greenland, working on the DEW line. While my mom was at home raising us, my dad was here.



I hope someday Bryce and Quinn will look back at some of our road trips with the same fondness I have of mine.

Still Going

We didn't travel with the kids when Bryce was three, but at the time, I thought this was a smart decision because Quinn was 18 months old. I now realize it was a smart decision because travel with a three year old and another child of any age is just a recipe for disaster. Bryce is five now, and if we were traveling with him alone, I'd probably be writing something mild and pleasant, like, "we're all a little tired, but we've had no problems at all" instead of what I'm here to write, the more depressing and asylum-worthy, "we're all still alive, but I don't know for how much longer," because Quinn - he is not five, he is three and a half.

After the first two days of travel where Quinn reminded us, his stupid, forgetful, trusting parents, that he is totally and comletely rabid-dog insane and will go darting out into streets or possibly force armed guards away from their posts to retrieve him from places he's not authorized to be madly, gleefully darting about, we finally started following through on our hand-holding mandate any time we took the child out in public. This works for a short period of time only when combined with the latest bribe - a pack of Smarties, his latest flash cards of choice, the chance to watch a movie - AND when he is the sole focus of one of us, and Bryce has no access to him to attempt meeting his undying goal of corrupting whatever delicate balance we're trying to maintain with Quinn.

There was a gas station stop today, the details of which I don't even know if I can bear to recount. I was alone with both kids, there was a crowded, tiny convenience store restroom, an accessible light switch, urine-soaked pants to change, a few screams (on the kids' part), some hisses (on mine), a LOT of threats, mostly empty (on all our parts). And after it was over, it wasn't over. I couldn't let it go, these several days of culminating disrespect and limit-pushing behaviors; it's all starting to feel like true, catastrophic failures on our part to teach any basic social rule to the kids, and after the gas station humiliation, I fell into a state of numb, silent resentment in the car. I could simultaneously be aware of my immature response to the kids and still have the audacity to carry it out. It was surreal, disappointing, and yet also somehow satisfying, even relaxing, just to sit there while they tried so hard to push the predictable buttons: Let's scream and see if she reacts. Hmm. What about kicking her seat? Odd. She's still just sitting there. Let's scream again. No, wait. Combine screaming and kicking. How about throwing? Wow.

After a few hours of that, we got to our halfway point and got out to walk around with the kids. It was another clear day with a light breeze, and as we waited to cross a street I looked down at Quinn, still so short and small, his light, wispy hair so easily tossed about by the smallest breath of wind, taking in the sights and sounds of a new city with what I have to believe is some form of remaining innocence, despite whatever colossal failures we've made, despite whatever mixed messages I give both of them (act the right way! but now that you didn't, neither will I! I will give you the silent treatment and metaphorically stick my tongue out at you!). I stood there looking at him and had to be the adult, the parent, to shake off my cloak of pissy, grudge-holding disappointment. I took another breath, gave his still baby-pudgy hand a squeeze when the light turned green, tried in a split second to burn the image of his small profile into my permanent memory files and said, "Okay, buddy. Now we can cross."

Whimsical, and maybe a little sadistic.

This place is exactly what you would picture Kentucky to look like: rolling hills, horses, big houses on big lots, blue sky, and room to run. The kids have spent the majority of their time running off their horrifying energy levels in the woods and hills behind my dad's house, which has freed up John and I to have adult conversations with my stepmom, the only one sane enough to stay inside with us, away from the nuclear fireballs that are my children. My dad is a brave soul, guiding them on hikes through the woods, chasing them in compliance with their constant demands to have the crap scared out of them, forging pirate swords and captain's daggers out of toilet paper rolls, letting them play in his office full of a lifetime's worth of precious trinkets and dozens of current, significant projects, and stopping whatever he's doing to take them on yet another tractor ride or start a fire and prep for marshmallow roasting.


Yesterday, after the Thanksgiving feast, during which the boys serenaded all of us with their cherubic voices and wowed us with their sweetness and maturity in the calm way they requested seconds -- oh wait, that's not what happened. It was more like, I DON'T LIKE CRANBERRY SAUCE OR GREEN BEAN CASSEROLE OR ANYTHING I WOULD NORMALLY EAT AT HOME WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! I WANT FRENCH FRIES!, but whatever. After that, and okay, I'll admit, after a collective decent amount of alcohol had been consumed, John and I had a conversation with my dad about a recent costume party he attended, where he went as Poe's Raven. Maybe it was the wine talking, or maybe it was our shared desire to find something to take up ten minutes FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE WE MUST PASS THE TIME, but my dad said, "it would be hilarious if I put on the Raven costume and came walking out of the woods towards the kids." And once it was out in the open, people, there was NO. WAY. I was going to pass up that opportunity. Any time I have the chance to strike fear into the hearts of my children, I recognize it for the divine intervention that it is, Amen.

Oh, alright. We didn't tell them a spooky story about an evil crow. As tempting as it was, I prefer intact eardrums, and that wouldn't have been possible if we'd purposely tried to spook the kids, because their shrieks would have broken all the glass in a ten-mile radius. We told them there was a magical raven in the woods. Oh yeah, they were into it. They had bread crumbs and everything.

I so wanted to scream, "RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, KIDS! HE EATS HUMANS!" But I didn't.

Even with a story about a magical "good luck" raven, they were freaking out. (Above, Quinn is backing up and Bryce is frantically reaching for bread crumbs.) If it had been me in the costume, I would have reveled in the rare chance to silence the kids with shock and awe, but my dad doesn't see the kids very often and I guess he wants to preserve his image of Someone Nicer Than Their Mom, so he came clean right away.

And after that, Quinn completed his transformation to dark overlord. Thanks, Dad.

Technical Difficulties

I've been trying for two hours to post what WOULD have been a hilarious commentary on the day we've had. Alas, the wireless network we managed to piggy back last night is no more. We tried using my dad's computer, but no go. We finally managed to use his DSL connection, and just as I uploaded the last of 12 - 15 pictures, I hit the wrong button, and Blogger lost my entire draft. I know about the "recover post" button, but did it work? No.

It's too bad, too. You were really up for a Thanksgiving treat. Now, it's too late, I'm about two seconds away from chucking my laptop out the window in frustration, and ER, one of the two television shows I actually watch, is on.

It's taking all of my will power even to post this piece of crap. Damn you, NaBloPoMo. You've taken all my already questionable standards and shot them to hell.

Oh, and uh...Happy Thanksgiving. Bear with us. Once I can upload more than two pictures AN HOUR, you're in for a treat.

On the road again, against all odds.

9:45 a.m. Cell phone rings.

Kristen: Hello?

Kristen's Mom: Do you need me to Fed-Ex your glasses to you?

Kristen: My glasses?

John (laughing): She read the blog.

Kristen: Yeah, John thinks I should have called you and asked you to do that, but I figured I wouldn't get them until Friday, so...

Kristen's Mom: So you'd have them for three of the six days you're gone.

Kristen: Yeah. Okay, so that sounds good.

Kristen's Mom: How was your morning?

Kristen: We're just getting on the road. We stopped at the Arch. And...well, I'll have to tell you the rest of the story later. But it involved someone in a uniform. Chasing your youngest grandchild.

John (in background): I can't believe how little respect he has for someone in a uniform.

Kristen: He doesn't know what a uniform means!

Kristen's Mom: Well, he might learn at an earlier age than you'd expect.

Kristen: I gotta go, Mom. The kids are killing each other.


10:15 a.m. Cell phone rings.

Kristen: Hello?

Kristen's Dad (tentative): Are you.... on the road?

Kristen: Yeah, we just left St. Louis because we stopped at the Arch.

Kristen's Dad: Oh good!

Kristen: Uh. Not so much.

Kristen's Dad: What happened?

Kristen: SIGH. We let go of Quinn's hand for 15 seconds.

Kristen's Dad: And?

Kristen: Oh god.

Kristen's Dad: What?

Kristen: He ran up the exit ramp, then turned and ran past the armed guard, through the metal detector, and down the entrance ramp. With. The. Guard. Chasing. Him.

Kristen's Dad: O-o-o-o-h.

Kristen: And then.

Kristen's Dad: There's more?

Kristen: The guard nudged him up the exit ramp, since that's where we now were, standing and whispering profanities at each other and grabbing Bryce's arm as he cackled, but as soon as Quinn saw us, he turned and ran from the guard, who then had to chase him into the museum and CARRY him back to John. Luckily the guard was a young, friendly guy. He never reached for his gun or anything.

Kristen's Dad (laughing, then clearing throat): Uh, sorry about that. How awful!

Kristen: I gotta go, Dad. The kids are killing each other.


2:00 p.m, Car chaos has reached a feverish pitch.

Bryce: Can I have my next toy now? Can I have my next toy now? Can I have my next toy now? Can I have my next toy now? Can I have my next toy now?

Kristen: ENOUGH!!! BRYCE! STOP REPEATING YOURSELF! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT?

Bryce: Two.

John (snorting water): Well, he did answer your question.

Kristen: Yes. Yes he did. So, is there any wine in here?

The Road to Hell

Okay, I'm typing this with no corrective lenses. At the hotel tonight after I took out my dry, twitching contacts, I reached for the comfortable, relaxing oasis of my glasses, opened the case, and screamed with the fury of a trapped bear when I saw that it was empty. I assume my glasses are folded neatly on the bathroom counter at home, 400 miles away. And yeah, this pretty much sums up the day we've had.

Bryce had a short Thanksgiving play scheduled for the first 15 minutes of the school day, so we went to the performance and left town from there. The high point of the play was when all the kids took turns naming something they're thankful for (Bryce's was "the world"), and one of Bryce's friends, after his classmates named things like, "my mom" or "my teacher," stood up confidently and clearly said, "I am thankful for the big bang that made everything we can study." (YES!! That pretty much trumps all the other measley attempts at gratitude: If it weren't for the big bang, you wouldn't HAVE a mom, SUCKAS!!) The low point was when Quinn objected to an older class having the audacity to use the part of the library over which HE was ruling to have their weekly story time. And so he grabbed the nearest stuffed animal and THREW IT AT THE CLASS, HITTING A LITTLE GIRL IN THE FACE. Their shocked, nervous laughter misled the little hooligan into thinking he'd found a niche for himself, and so when the librarian reached for him to return to his pathetically crappy mother (me), he grabbed a bigger stuffed animal AND THREW IT INTO THE LIBRARIAN'S FACE. I'm not exaggerating. It hit hard enough that it bounced back.

I don't know, people. I think this means we suck worse than we thought we did. It can't NOT be our fault, I don't think. We were going to fill out Quinn's application so he could attend school with Bryce next year, but I think that's pretty much out of the question at this point.

I've blocked out the majority of the seven hours on the road, and it would be boring to recount in detail anyway: blah blah, we almost tore out all our hair, blah blah, our ears were bleeding, blah blah, road construction is the devil, blah blah.


When we got to our hotel tonight, we decided to let the kids get their energy out.

After that, we went out to dinner and, intelligent people that we are, chose a place on a busy city street, and didn't physically attach the kids to us, which meant that as soon as Quinn saw an escape route, he took it. ACROSS THE BUSY STREET. Laughing maniacally, I guess sharing a joke with death, who he was staring in the face. I chased him, shrieking, which caused him to pause and turn around IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD. Nobody was even grazed by a car, so yay for me and my great parenting skills.

Tomorrow we drive to my dad's for Thanksgiving. What hair-graying experiences await us? I don't know, I'll have to ask Quinn, and his hilarious buddy, death.

Knock knock.....

Who's there?

Dwayne.

Dwayne who?

Dwayne the bathtub, I'm dwowning.

We are leaving tomorrow on an 800 mile trip across two time zones and 5 states. In a car. With both kids. Three months ago I thought this would be a good idea. Fun! Exciting! See the country! Eat every meal at McDonald's for two days in a row! I have since regained consciousness and realize now what a folly my original idealized vision of this trip is.

In the last four days, I have edited two weddings, two engagement sessions, and two family sessions. If your keeping score that's 5682 pictures I've looked at, decided which ones to keep, edited them from raw to jpg correcting for color, density and sharpness, made slideshows, uploaded to my web sales gallery, burned CD's, and dropped them off at the lab. And I haven't even mentioned the four album designs I squeezed in there somewhere. I am now blind and delirious from staring at the monitor for untold hours and I haven't had a conversation with Kristen other than a "I gotta go work" as she walks in the door or a few mumbles as I wake her when I climb into bed at 2:45 AM.

For trip related preparedness, there are countless loads of laundry to be done; trip plans to make including route selection (the leisurely drive through interesting places with character, or the direct drive let's get there as fast as we possibly can before someone gets hurt), where we are going to stay on Tuesday night (must have wireless internet, be close to the highway, and have a pool); the car needs to be hosed out, the oil changed, and tires rotated; bags packed, beer chilled snacks packed, valium scrip refilled, and activity bags for the kids put together; the mailman and paper carrier need to be notified to hold the delivery; neighbors told we will be gone and to watch out for big vans in the driveway; and I'm sure this is only the big stuff I can remember at this moment.

I feel, at this moment, like I am being crushed. I know once we hit the road the crush will ease, slowly, then release completely as I try to talk Kristen into stopping at ridiculous road stop places along the way. 5000 pop bottles! We HAVE to stop!

You can look forward to plenty of mayhem recap for the next week or so, and maybe a picture or two from our Thanksgiving adventure.

Wish us luck.

Shell Shock

We tempted fate one too many times, and paid dearly for it this weekend. Even with an adult to child ratio of 1:1, chaos reigned supreme.

When we stopped to eat dinner along the way to my aunt's house, Bryce had a... bowel situation that I feel he described well enough not to require any extra details from me: "That poop shot out of my bottom like a meteor!" Unfortunately, this... bowel situation required more resources than we had at our disposal, so my mom called my aunt to evaluate the base camp supplies: "Do you have any Desitin? Can you get some? Kristen says to get the 'creamy' kind." The rest of our dinner included Quinn's unnaturally loud and involuntary burps and Bryce's seemingly delirious (and still unexplained) blurting of the phrase, "It's 9:00, Sid!" in random and unpredictable intervals. If that level of humiliation isn't indicative of a weekend that will live in infamy, I don't know what is. And yet, I was cluelessly optimistic, even as I walked out with my burping, limping, apparently hallucinating children and refused to make eye contact with the civilized IHOP customers undoubtedly wondering what mental institution we'd all recently escaped from.

The cousins were thrilled to see each other. Unfortunately, after minutes and minutes of the children hugging and blinking doe-eyed at each other's loveliness, we victims adults were all left wondering, what do we do with them now? As the weekend was ending and my mom and I were running down the list of Lessons Learned (thank you, corporate america, for one of my favorite ironic phrases), she pointed out that with kids aged three to five years, "a little bit goes a long way." What she meant by this, in her kind and happy way was, "we should have kept those monsters away from each other for a little longer." For every peaceful, cooperative moment involving no major catastrophes, interruptions, screaming, stampeding, or injury, there were 10 involving at least one of those. And as is always the case with small children and family gatherings, there was one toy that was the envy of the children, one toy that required constant monitoring, timing, and hiding to prevent an all-out war: The Spinning Thing, one of those battery-operated plastic contraptions with plastic and gel arms that light up when you press the trigger and whirl around at speeds unimaginable to three-, four-, and five-year-olds. I hate the god-forsaken Spinning Thing. The Spinning Thing must die. The Spinning Thing is the spawn of Satan. DAMN YOU, Spinning Thing! DAMN! YOU! Every major fight was over The Spinning Thing. The adults' entire weekend was spent discussing The Spinning Thing in tense, tight voices: Whose turn is it for the Spinning Thing? Did he really hit her with The Spinning Thing? Why are they always running when they have The Spinning Thing? Why doesn't The Spinning Thing have a real name? When are those batteries going to give out anyway? Oh my holy god in heaven who invented the damned Spinning Thing?! I HATE IT, GIVE IT TO ME NOW I'M GOING TO DESTROY IT IN FRONT OF ALL OF YOU, DIE SPINNING THING, DDDDIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!

Okay, so maybe that was just me. Anyway, it was horrifying. And still, there is more.

The Spinning Thing isn't even what is going down in the Hall of Horror and Shame. Remember the tube of Desitin we sent my aunt to buy for us on that fated night as we approached her house with the other two elements still needed to create the perfect storm for Labor Day 2006? The tube I left on my aunt's dresser, next to her bed, where I put Quinn for a nap and left him unsupervised in my stupid belief that he would sleep because I have some crazy assumption that as a human three-year-old, at some point he'll have to sleep? Did he:

a.) get up 50 times and walk into the hallway until someone noticed him and put him back in bed
b.) scream and laugh like a lunatic and refuse to sleep despite his obvious delirium
c.) quietly smear the full tube of Desitin Creamy onto my aunt's brand new, recently installed bedroom carpet
d.) all of the above

Did I:

a.) not know about this until Quinn woke from his nap hours after maturely and responsibly cleaning up the mess
b.) find him and breathe a sigh of relief just before any greasy staining material touched the new carpet
c.) catch him mid-Desitin smear, remain calm, and clean up before anyone was aware of the near-disaster
d.) none of the above; rather, walk in, scream in horror, make everyone in the house think I'd found Quinn dead, then watch them all proceed not to care about the carpet in their intense relief over his well-being and lack of bloody stumps in the room

For those of you who are new around here, the answer was D in both cases. I'll be billed for the carpet cleaning AND the hospital bills for the multiple heart attacks I caused.

They're deceptively cute when they're plotting. It's 9:00, Sid!

I hope they have ear plugs.

This weekend, my mom and I are checking out of the mental hospital in which we apparently live, and are getting back in the car with Bryce and Quinn for five or six hours. See, in our family, we like to push our luck. Have an unnaturally good experience where the stars align properly and a long weekend trip to a cabin in the woods doesn't result in face-melting shrieks? Experience a miracle wherein trekking across West Texas with pint-sized professional humiliators actually results in a mere two or three moments of wishing your restaurant chair would sink into the floor and all of these nice patrons would stop staring at the kid screaming about his digestive problems? Well, by all means, let's test out those statistics! Sure, it's completely unrealistic to hope for three mildly successful summer trips in a row, but a break with reality has never stopped us before. Onward and upward, lunatics!

We're going to visit my mom's soft-spoken and completely happy and unsarcastic sisters, and my even more innocent and peaceful Russian cousin-in-law, who happens to have two kids - one Bryce's age, one Quinn's age. Those poor, sweet children don't realize what's about to come their way. The older one is actually looking forward to the visit, wanting to have pictures of his cousins to take back to Russia with him, I'm assuming to commemorate the weekend his eardrums will burst when Quinn inevitably decides that, NO, no one besides Quinn is actually allowed to touch anything without his prior approval I WILL SHRIEK UNTIL YOU COMPLY WITH MY RULES, O MINIONS.

Live from San Francisco

Proof you wouldn't want to travel with me.
What are those areas, those vast expanses of land suddenly interrupted by huge, closely placed circles (like crop circles, only there are no crops, only brownish-gray rock and dirt)? Flying over Colorado, Nevada, and California, I entertained myself by creating sweeping conspiracy theories involving those perfectly shaped circles. There were rectangles and squares occasionally, too, but the circles seemed more suspicious to me, probably because there was usually a lone road nearby, a perfectly straight line appearing to cross the entire earth and ending abruptly within miles of the perfect circles - ending, themselves, in a circular blot of concrete at the base of barren, rocky mountain. I imagined there was some sort of door built into those mountains right where the road ended, that the huge earth cobblestones were the upper operating pieces of massive fans or solar panels cooling or lighting a secret city, or a torture complex, or medical testing grounds. I would imagine, though, that if I had a large torture complex that I didn't want the public to know about, I wouldn't place it smack in the middle of an otherwise empty region of rocks and dirt; the panels of my torture chamber lights and the lone road ending right at the entrance to my secret dungeon might as well be flashing neon lights in the shape of an arrow: Large Secret Torture Chamber Located Here!

Seriously, though. What are those things?

Help me, internet. You're my only hope.
Also, California natives, I have a geographical question for you: when one is en route into San Francisco imagining what kinds of horrid experiments are taking place beneath the desert-like region one has been flying over for the past hour or two, and suddenly the the terrain turns to one of thick evergreens on hills dotted with what look to be mansions and resorts, and then just as suddenly it turns into hugely huge vats of colorful hugeness (uh, they're huge.) that appear from the sky to be watery paint? WHAT THE HELL ARE THOSE?! I've been racking my brain ever since I saw them. Are they algae lakes? Do they have something to do with wastewater treatment? Are they naturally occuring? Are they related to the bay currents? From the sky, they literally look like one of those old fashioned painter's palettes, the way the shapes of color are distinctly separated from one another, but if you look closely, you can see swirls and distinction within a single paint color (in this case, mauves, browns, pinks, greens, blues). I must know what this is. And I must know NOW.

Lack of space = cool urban atmosphere.
I haven't had a chance to do any sightseeing yet, but I did go to a nice Italian restaurant in downtown San Francisco last night. Being from the midwest, the first thing my work partner and I noticed about this city is the close proximity of everything here. There is no spot of ground that isn't covered with a house, condo, shop, restaurant, crowd, or street. Because of this, there are restaurants whose tables actually spill out into the alley ways: my work partner thought this was genius. Open your door, grab some tables, string some lights across the alley, and voila! A quaint local restaurant. He decided our city needs some alley restaurants, but somehow I don't think it would have the same effect in midwest suburbia.

It's all about work-life balance.
Now I'm off to eight hours of some kind of training I signed up for six months ago. Six months ago, when I wasn't busy at work, as opposed to now, when I have a pile of stress-inducing papers with me that I'm not exactly sure I'll be able to work on. After all, I can't be expected to forego my sightseeing requirements for WORK, just because WORK sent me here! I mean, come on!

I left my heart in San Francisco (and other love songs)

Kristen is bailing out leaving for San Francisco tomorrow. San Francisco! For FOUR days with a company credit card! I should be so lucky.

Since I handle the kids from 6:00 AM to 6:00 PM five and one half days a week (I'm on halfday, sometimes quarterday, duty on Saturdays so Kristen can sleep in before I go to my wedding - I know, I'm a prince - but she gives me Sunday mornings so we each get at least one morning to snooze) it's really not that big of a deal. Except. Man oh man, do I look forward to a little relief when she gets home. I'm going to have to change things up a little to be able to survive. I think the crockpot and pizza delivery guy will be my best friends for the next four nights.


Have you seen Cynical Dad's top 100 album list? He's asking for guesses on his #1 pick. I took a shot and my guess wasn't even on his list. I've been wondering about how I could expand my music range and with his list I didn't have to wonder any more. I've been downloading all the "never before heard of's," the "oh yeah, I remember them's," and even a couple of "that trash made the list?". I thought about compliling a top 100 list for about three seconds, then realized a.) I would obsess, rank, and rerank my rank collection and never get it done and b.)my top 100 would bore you to death.


I love technology, especially when it works. Today I got a nifty little inexpensive device that just solved a major (for me) obstacle. I have 3,948 songs on my pc. A lot to many, a paltry few to others. To me, it's just about easily listening to what I want when I'm working. But I wanted a way to be able to listen to albums, playlists, internet radio, and audio streams from my pc (upstairs) through my home stereo (downstairs). The answer, my friends, is the $25 Lyra RD900W. Plug in the transmitter to an available usb port on your pc, then plug in the receiver to the aux input on your stereo. Skip the software installation if you're happy with your current media player. Works like a charm!

More about the trip: you only thought I was through with this subject.

At least it's a benevolent creepy.
Last week, as I sat on my grandmother's deck and visited with my brother, my dad, and various extended family members, John and Bryce came outside, Bryce yelling excitedly, "Mom, watch what I can do!!" He grabbed both of John's hands and proceeded to walk up John's legs, torso, and chest and then flip over, landing on his feet, still holding John's hands. My brother and I looked at each other half incredulous, half amused: the only time we'd EVER in our lives performed the Childhood Torso Climb Flip was at my grandmother's house, and then we'd subjected aunts and uncles to it more times than any human should ever have to endure the skin-pinching pain and bruises caused by 35-50 pound humans clad in rubber-soled tennis shoes using one's body as a launch pad for Childhood Torso Climb Flips. I assumed someone had clued Bryce and/or John into the apparent Childhood Torso Climb Flip requirement at my grandmother's house, so I asked both of them, "who told you about that?" to which John stared at me blankly and then said, "nobody told me - Bryce just walked up to me, grabbed my hands, and started climbing." No one really knew what to say, even though all of us were thinking, "weird!" until my dad made an alarming implication about the psychic awareness of my grandmother's house. We all took another swig of our respective drinks and changed the subject.

Later, when the kids' excitement over the dozen new toys my grandparents purchased for them had worn off to the point that they were doing things like playing the electric piano keyboard at its highest volume (and by "playing" I mean attacking the keys with brute force and evil laughter), John did the only thing any sane individual can do with two kids under age 5 in a town of 3,000 in 110-degree weather: took them to Wal-Mart and bought a Slip-n-Slide. Again, Slip-n-Slide use was only ever sanctioned at my grandparents' house - we never had a yard that allowed for such intense water madness - and I figured someone had mentioned the Old Days of Slip-n-Slide Joy to one of the kids or John, but no - more creepy (but fun) psychic leftovers from my childhood.

Manipulation is the new comedy.
Oh my, were the kids ever fond of all the attention from the great aunts and great uncles and great grandparents who thought Bryce and Quinn were, well...great, actually. The amazing thing about people who haven't been around young children in several years is that they just FORGET. They forget how annoying the tantrums can be. They forget how differently kids act in public, and how frustrating it is as the parent to watch a kid who you know is perfectly capable of answering a question coherently turn into a giggly, limp mass of pretend shyness simply because he knows his parents won't call him on it in front of everyone. They forget how lack of sleep makes all of that cuteness seem really not so cute at all. And all they see is the miracle of a healthy, beautiful child, perfect precisely because of the imperfections; all they hear is the sound of life's complex, sometimes loud, potential; all they feel is the sense of special worth that being genuinely and gently hugged by a child you've only just met will inevitably leave with a person, no matter how old.

It was precisely this set of perceptions that allowed me to laugh (rather than rip out my hair by the roots while wailing and gnashing my teeth) when, at dinner in a restaurant one night, Quinn pushed the envelope further than I knew he was capable by doing everything he could imagine to bring the table to tearful, breathless laughter. He started early in the evening, while everyone was attempting to peruse the menu, by pouring a harmless amount of salt and pepper on the table AND THEN LICKING.IT UP. TWICE. IN A ROW. Yes! This is hilarious! Just look at their disgusted, shocked faces, and their shoulders, how they shake while they try not to laugh! This, THIS is what I've been waiting for! Later, after his mandatory two bites of the rice and beans he'd so passionately demanded, he announced with glee that HE NEEDED TO POOP, MOM I NEED TO POOP AND IT'S IMPORTANT THAT THE ENTIRE RESTAURANT KNOW THIS! I got up to take him to the restroom and made the mistake of not holding his hand, a foolish, amateur move of which he took swift advantage by sprinting across the huge, compartmentalized restaurant, ultimately darting into a private, luckily empty, room - mere moments later, John wouldn't be so lucky and would end his meal as a broken man, chasing his three-year-old through a private banquet room while the hosting family reunion pointed and laughed: just look at that funny kid and his funny, funny dad! HAHAHA! But it was so truly hilarious to everyone with us, and since he didn't BREAK anything or KICK anyone or THROW any food at a stranger, then certainly this behavior shouldn't stop us from ordering dessert! We ordered him a scoop of ice cream, even though the kid has never in his life successfully consumed anything with a sweet flavor. While I stuffed myself on sopapillas, the rest of the adults distracted themselves with conversation while Quinn, suddenly aware that no one was laughing hysterically at him, stuck John's credit card into the top of his ice cream scoop at an angle, like a fancy wafer would be positioned, then waited patiently for someone to notice. And believe me, we did. I'm not sure if anyone has actually stopped talking about it since.

No matter where you go, there you are.

Last week we drove to West Texas to visit my grandmother for her 80th birthday. I haven't been to her house since childhood, and as cliche as it sounds, it looked tiny to me. The "long" hallway to the back bedroom was actually about three steps; the "huge" front room that used to house unimaginable mounds of Christmas presents and decorations was actually a little crowded even without all of the holiday paraphernalia; the back yard we'd spend hours in as kids shooting water guns and swinging on hammocks was actually about half the size of what I remembered. Still, though, there was so much about it all that felt familiar and unchanged - the smells in the house, the constant din of my grandfather's TV in the background, the voices, the phrases, the conversation, the food, my GOD, the food. What was most interesting to me about the trip was how profoundly comfortable the kids were - my kids, who thrive on routine and order and familiarity - in this new environment. When we walked in, they hugged my grandparents as if they'd known them all their lives, then immediately found the toys my grandmother had bought for them, which were in a guest room in a house they should have had no clue how to navigate. They conversed with everyone (basically) politely and made themselves at home. Unfortunately when my kids make themselves at home, their great level of comfort results in lots of yelling and running. But true to form, my grandmother was thrilled to have them there anyway. My grandfather's oscillating moods were met with the same calm, joking manner the whole family has learned to adopt with him, and the kids seemed to pick up on this as well. It was uncannily peaceful, and - despite the challenges of a long trip with young kids and the light of smallness that adulthood shines on childhood memories - very familiar.

During one of our hours-long driving treks this week, we stopped in a tiny town for John to take some pictures and the kids to terrorize as few living beings as possible with their insistence on exerting their life force upon every particle of matter with which they happened to come into contact during our drives (car door using one's foot? cotton of one's shirt using one's furious claw-like fingers in protest of something admittedly innocuous? mom's ear using one's uncannily superhuman screaming ability? too many choices.). While we were there, it was so quiet and still, except for the occasional truck whizzing by on the state highway, sometimes stopping at the town's lone (but apparently popular, judging by the number of cars consistently in the gravel parking lot) restaurant. John and the kids walked around the old prison and the courthouse while I sat on the courthouse steps and looked across the highway at the antique/junk store owner who sat on his porch and swatted flies. I wanted to think about how awful and stifling that existence would be, and how every fiber of my being would rail against it, but all I could think about was how very peacefully quiet it was. It wasn't the quiet of relief I notice after the kids are asleep, like, "thank god THAT's over now" or the quiet of fear that I notice in the split second after one of them has fallen and is waiting for the pain to register in his brain - both of which I experienced on this trip, by the way. It was just a quiet of still acceptance, one that said something to me about how no matter how much things change, they ultimately stay the same, regardless of space, time, and new elements.

So Far*

We all survived the first six-hour leg of our trip. We have another three hours to go today, which would sound encouraging and like a relief compared to yesterday's journey if you didn't know our kids well enough to know that their ability to wear us down increases exponentially with each passing hour in a new situation. Now that the novelty of the driving and the new place has worn off, they've moved on to torturing the poor fools in my family who are trying to sleep on the hide-a-beds in the living areas by doing things like SNEAKING UNDER THEIR BEDS WHILE THEY SLEEP and having blanket-whipping races through the house while they "whisper" louder than most adults can scream.

Yeah. My family hates us now. And we haven't even made it to my 80-year-old grandmother's house yet.

*My aunt and uncle don't mind us pirating their wireless connection. We'll see if we have connectivity at our next stop. Or actually, if we'll be banned from entering the small peaceful town when word spreads about the three-foot-tall terrorists we're harboring in our Honda Pilot.

Somebody, stop us.

Apparently a little taste of success goes a long way in this house. After surviving a six-hour trip with Bryce in December, and our recent trek to the wilderness with both kids, John and I have been replaced by optimistic fools who thrive on pipe dreams that traveling with the kids is suddenly a piece of cake. It is precisely this warped mentality that I fear is going to lead to one of two things over the next five days:

1.) straightjackets.

2.) hitchhiking pre-schoolers.

We're driving nine hours this time. It makes sense: six hours in December with one kid worked out surprisingly well; three hours in May with two kids was manageable. It stands to reason that nine hours (six hours one day, three hours the next) in the car with Mr. Intensity and Psycho Boy (if you can't figure out who's who, it really doesn't matter - it's the deadly combination that's important anyway) should be a walk in the park. (Or a mad dash through a war zone. Either one. It's all the same in my new optimistic fool brain. Weeee!)

We probably won't have internet access, but we will return with photographic proof that the kids survived the trip, and we promise not to use any duct tape or chains. (I kid! Nobody needs to call Social Services. Ha ha! Ha ha ho ho, eh he he. Ahem.)

Trip Log, or Lack Thereof

Memorial Day Trip Log: Friday Night

Our three-hour trek to Oklahoma’s wilderness -- I mean forest harvesting areas that look suspiciously like wilderness -- went remarkably well. The kids quietly watched movies in the car the whole way, and Truman panted peacefully as he looked out the large back window of our Honda Pilot, happy not to have been sold on the black market despite the two half-digested, bile-covered socks he left for us on the rug this morning. In an amazing potty training feat, we only had to stop once for the kids to go to the bathroom, but unfortunately that was on the side of the road because when Bryce says he has to go, it means RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I FAILED TO MENTION THIS PRESSING URGE 20 MINUTES AGO WHEN IT STARTED. John tried to take Bryce behind a tree that was about half the width of Bryce’s tiny waist, in attempt to leave us all with some dignity and also avoid a citation for indecent exposure, or child molestation. In addition to its insufficiency, that small tree also happened to be among a grove of chigger-infested tall grass, so I frantically opened the door and put a stop to that nonsense, and then John and I had a minor argument over where the appropriate location would be for our child to expose himself to the highway traffic. We decided on a position utilizing the car as a shield on one side, and John on the other. After he was finished, I breathed a sigh of relief, like, “Phew! We didn’t get caught!” and then John opened the door to put Bryce back in his seat and said, “Quinn, do you need to go potty now?” even though I was frantically waving my arms and sending LOUD ESP signals telling him “IXNAY on the OTTYPAY, let‘s just drive the 20 miles to the next town because my heart can‘t take the stress of all this public peeing.” It turned out to be a wise decision to let Quinn out, though, as I learned when John returned to put Quinn in his seat and proudly said, “this is Mr. Niagara Falls, right here!”

Neither kid took a nap today, so by the time we ate dinner at the cabin tonight, Quinn was especially touchy. At one point, he was playing some sort of game with my step-dad when it occurred to us that it had been a while since we’d checked the status of his bladder. “Quinn,” I said, “Do you need to go potty?” Before the entire sentence was even out of my mouth, and without turning to look at me, in his complete annoyance and irritation that I had dared to interrupt his concentration-demanding tickle game and remind him that I exist with my nagging burden of a voice said, “LEAVE ME ALONE!” with a flourishing double-clenched-fist-throw down and a look to my step-dad that implied, “God, she is SUCH a drag, with her constant insistence on TAKING CARE OF ME.”

Shortly after that, we attempted to let the kids sleep in a big bed together in our cabin, knowing they would probably play and giggle, and being perfectly okay with that. Really; perfectly okay. Well, except for the fact that the giggling was so very loud, and it also involved kicking pillows off the bed, loud hiccup sounds, tongue-clicking, and clapping. It sounded like a primitive tribal language lesson in there. After 30 minutes and as many trips in and out of the room, 12 extra glasses of water each, a few empty threats of losing music and blanket privileges (yeah, right - then they scream and cry; and who really wins that battle?), we did something we weren’t really intending to do, and that was to separate them by putting each of them into one of the two bedrooms in our cabin, leaving us with the twin beds in the living room. Nice.

Fortunately, after that step, they were both asleep within five minutes, which left me some time to realize that something was missing in my day. Food? Drinks? Laptop? Blog! The blog, that’s it! We weren’t expecting to have wi-fi, so we were prepared to deal with dial-up in this remote location. Where’s that phone jack, anyway?

No phone jack.

A strange, shaky feeling came over me. I hadn’t thought through this crazy trip. What exactly does one do without an internet connection? What kind of primitive establishment is this, anyway? We’re paying money to be here, cut off from communication with the world?

To while away the non-technology-filled time, we watched the dog chase a fly, and now you can too.

Memorial Day Trip Log: Monday Afternoon

Well, so much for the log. I'll try to sum up the rest of the trip from memory. First of all, we played a lovely game of Musical Beds on Friday night, which taught us that for Saturday and Sunday nights, we would each be sleeping with one kid to avoid all the night time shuffling, as much fun and excitement as it had been to sleep-walk to a crying pre-schooler in an unfamiliar, pitch black cabin in the woods. The next day, even though the kids should have been really tired, they insisted on going for nature walks and looking for things to do. What's up with that?

On the first walk, Bryce spotted this lovely animal skull, and declared that it was a dinosaur skeleton, "because I know everything; I'm an expert. Experts know everything and I'm an expert." (He's into repetition. That's why we're all on the brink of insanity over here. Not to mention humility...MAN is that kid humble! )

Me: "Well, actually, an expert doesn't know everything; they know a lot about certain things. Like a dinosaur expert would know a lot about dinosaurs."

John: "Wouldn't that be a paleontologist?"

Me: "Well, he doesn't know what that is, and besides, a paleontologist would still be a dinosaur expert."

Bryce: "Yes! It's a paleontologist!"

Me: "Do you even know what that means? What is a paleontologist?"

Bryce: "It's someone who digs up dead dinosaur bones."

As I walked along in my shamed silence, wondering how he'd found time to learn about paleontologists when he couldn't even manage to figure out how to take a bite of an entire ravioli without choking, I heard him come running up behind me, "I saw a snake skin back there, but it was slimy and it scared me so I put it down." When he saw my horrified look, he offered to show me the snake skin, which turned out to be a fishing lure, "in the shape of a tap dancing cane." Not a "J" or a "hook"; a tap-dancing cane.

After so much enlightenment, I don't know what would have compelled us to look for the nature center we'd heard so much about. But rather than actually looking at a map or a brochure, we just started driving down the highway that cuts through the national forest area and assumed the first place that had the word "museum" in its title would be the right place. We expected it to be small and quaint, but we didn't expect it to have a taxidermy studio next door. You would think when we saw that it DID, in fact, have a taxidermy studio next door, we would have said to our city-dwelling selves, "Hmm. This probably isn't the right place. Let's keep looking." But, no. We did not say that. We got out of the car and paid $20 to walk through the taxidermy studio's display of its finest specimens. We saw things like this, while our kids went back and forth between being scared (like I was) and running down the single hallway screaming (like I wanted to be).

After we all recovered from THAT trauma, we saw a unique sight on the volunteer firefighter's headquarters on our way back to the cabin: a hand-written sign that read "BAKE YARD SALE." We looked at each other, incredulous. Could it be?? Had some risk-loving entrepeneurial volunteer forest fire fighter conjured up the genius scheme of combining a yard sale and a bake sale into one blowout event?! Yes, indeed. And they had some real treasures:

After this admittedly disappointing outing, the kids were pretty bored, and were either climbing on the furniture or trying to escape at all times.

To make up for our failure, we made sure to fill the rest of the time with plenty of traditional tourist-in-the-woods activities, like train rides and marshmallow roasts.

And, oh yes...there was one other outing of which I unfortunately can't post pictures, because John is paranoid and refuses to bring his "expensive equipment" to places where there tends to be lots of "splashing" and chances for it to be "ruined." I don't know, something or other about not wanting to threaten his "livelihood." In any case, my mom and step-dad rented a boat and we all went for a chest-tightening spin around a large body of water none of us had any clue how to navigate, but since my step-dad had extensive boating experience, we put the entire trip in his hands, which seemed to make sense until we all noticed as we approached a certain lake island that we could see these brown and tan sharp objects just beneath the surface and then BA-LA-LALALAM! discovered what that extremely knowledgeable 14-year-old had meant when he'd told us to stay a certain distance from shore. After that, when Bryce wasn't asking me what "that bumpy water was called" (later he said, "oh yeah, it's called 'shallow water'! Now I remember!"), and when Quinn wasn't pushing the emergency "horn" at my step-dad's secret encouragement and potentially throwing the entire lake into cardiac arrest, both kids (and John) were giving their very best pirate "ARRRGGGH, matey! Ahoy there!"s at random intervals, and Bryce was insistent that we stop at all the two foot by two foot "islands" to search for treasure. Bryce also kept confusing the lake with oceans and rivers, so John explained how the lake got there through the use of a dam, after which Bryce started saying, "Wow, I see a WHOLE LOT OF DAM WATER!"

On our way back, we noticed what seemed to be a friendly couple on a suspiciously still Sea Doo, waving at everyone that passed by. "These lake goers sure do like to socialize," I thought, as I scanned the horizon for the next island so as to warn my step-dad not to crash us into it. Then John said, "Uh, I don't think they're waving to say hello. I think they're stuck." He was right. The poor saps had been blowing their little emergency whistle and waving with the international sign for GET OVER HERE AND HELP US for 45 minutes before anybody bothered to do something other than lift a beer from their boat, smile, and speed away (and if it hadn't been for John, I have to admit, we would have done the same. We're stupid. That's all there is to it. John just married into the wrong family, is all). After an agonizing and slightly embarrassing 20 minutes of capsizing their machine when we anchored our line to the wrong part of the Sea Doo (Note to self: Do not attempt to wrap the line around the handle bars, no matter how much it seems like this might work. It does NOT work.), we got them back to the marina and all was well. It was only later that night that John and I both admitted that as soon as we'd pulled up to the stranded couple, we thought, "wouldn't it be horribly, ironically tragic if they ended up being lake pirates?"

Memorial Day Trip to Insanity

Last year, I had a last minute lapse in judgment opportunity to accompany my mom and stepdad on their annual Memorial Day trip to a cabin at a lake about three hours from where we live. Let me re-cap the experience for you:

Quinn: Age 2, sleeping in a crib, wearing diapers, not talking well.
Bryce: Age 3 1/2, routine-dependent, manipulative, competitive with brother.
Kristen: Physical Age late 20's, Mental Age 98 (thus demented), impatient, sleep-deprived, unprepared.
Beds: Two bunk beds and one hide-a-bed in community area for me and the boys.
Liquor: Major shortage.
Head traumas: At least one (Quinn, repeatedly slamming his head on the bottom rails of the top bunk while in exhausted hysterics).

After it was over, since she is insane is a glutton for punishment found it all so enjoyable, and our presence so peaceful, my mom invited us back this year. I've taken several steps to improve the experience. First and foremost, John is coming with us against his will. We also have a separate cabin this year so my mom won't hear the threats of violence, the kids are a year older and both basically potty trained*, and we should be stocked with plenty of recently purchased Oregonian wine to dull the roars in our heads make everything seem more festive. However, we're also bringing our crazy epileptic dog, so that might even the score--we wouldn't want things to seem too peaceful or relaxing, you know. Unfortunately, unlike our snazzy hotel in Portland, these cabins don't exactly have free wi-fi, or any wi-fi whatsoever. So you might not hear from us this weekend, but I'm sure we'll have some horrifying entertaining stories and photos for you to thank your lucky stars you're not us admire upon our return.

*"Basically potty trained" refers to Quinn, who will require constant monitoring and sniffing, which I'm not actually sure is going to be less work than changing diapers on a cabin floor.

Come on in, we just got our vacation pictures back!

You know the friends or relatives you hate to visit too soon after they get back from vacation because you will be forced to flip through a photo album of 7000 pictures, or suffer through a slideshow of overexposed, washed out, out of focus, heads cut off photos while wondering how to escape with your sanity?

We are those friends and relatives. And now that your here (and the door is locked), come on in and have a seat! It will take me just a minute to get set up. Something to drink while you’re waiting? Ok, we're set. Comfortable? Good.

I'm sure you know by now that we dumped the kids with Kristen's mom (thanks again MegaMa) and took our annual anniversary trip last weekend to Portland, Oregon. We had a blast, and crammed more into 3 days than a human body theoretically can withstand. We started day one with a drive down the coast. Unbelievably gorgeous. When you live in a flat landlocked state like we do, driving down the Pacific coast is a thrill like no other. We stopped in a couple of towns along the way, walked the beach, and ended up back in Portland for dinner later that evening.

Wait, where are you going?! I really won’t take much more of your time. Another beverage perhaps? I promise it will be worth it.

Day two was exploring all that Portland has to offer. We went to Market and I had a nice encounter with a displaced hurricane Katrina victim showing off his pets. We visited Chinatown, the Pearl district, the Japanese Gardens, and immersed ourselves in Portland food, fun and culture.

Day three we drove through wine country and stopped at several vineyards and wineries for a taste of Pinot nirvana, then visited the Columbia River Gorge and stopped at all the waterfalls along the way. Every aspect of our trip (except the final leg of our journey) was simply remarkable. The people were friendly, the sites were fantastic, and of course, my travel companion was stunning.

So without further ado, I give you my visual interpretation of our trip: Portland.

The slideshow will open in a new window. Find and click the play button and the slideshow will load and play. When the slideshow is over, you will see the gallery view which will allow you to view the photos individually. If you are on dialup, be patient.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig

Holy time warp, batman! It's already Wednesday?! I am so behind. This week is crazy. It's the kids' last week of school, work is finally picking up for me, John's busy season has kicked in with weddings and bookings of all kinds, and we have all sorts of extra evening events like baby showers and end-of-the-year school performances to attend, not to mention things like GROCERY SHOPPING so our kids can eat (since nobody bothered to do our shopping for us during our vacation, those lazy bums). Headless chickens, we are.

We were even MORE like headless chickens on Monday night as we tried desperately to return home from our amazing vacation. I knew everything had gone way too smoothly, but I thought for once that fortune was smiling on us. Besides, there was that under-the-fingernail paper cut I got on our way out of town (ever had one of those? John thought I'd been possessed by a demon as I writhed and kicked and shouted obscenities while the blood gushed from under the very fingernail I use to help me floss my bracket-covered high-maintenance teeth), and those watered down margaritas we broke the bank for while waiting for our first flight out - I thought maybe those were going to be the worst things about the trip. But, no. I failed to account for the fact that we would be going through the airport from hell on the airline from hell on our way home.

First of all, after getting on the skylink going the wrong way and after John listened to me complain about how RIDICULOUS it was that the signs weren't more clearly posted and how STUPID the entire layout of the airport was, and how LUDICROUS it was that passengers were FORCED to ride the skylink and couldn't simply WALK to their terminal, and for the love of god, WHY was the airport designed this way, IT IS JUST SO RIDICULOUSLY STUPID AND LUDICROUS, the agonizing (for John) 20 minutes ended and we were deposited at our fateful terminal. There, we discovered, via one of those nifty big screens with all the helpful flight information, that our flight home had been delayed, with no gate identified.

I checked in at the original gate (and that is important, so remember it), and confirmed that the flight was delayed and the gate would not change. I asked why it was delayed and was told, "I don't know." Okay, great. THAT makes me feel secure. John and I walked to the closest restaurant (about 30 feet away) and ate dinner, then returned to the gate 40 minutes before the new departure time. I checked in again, because the flight number wasn't displayed at the gate; a different flight number was. I talked to the same airline representative, who looked at me strangely when I gave her my flight number and said, "what was your last name?" and after I told her, pushed her nifty computer buttons and said, "that flight's closed. It left on time."

Wait. WHAT? I HAD JUST CHECKED IN WITH HER 40 MINUTES BEFORE THIS, PEOPLE! I'm pretty sure their fancy expensive systems tell them if all the passengers are on board when they decide NOT to delay a flight 20 minutes after telling someone it's been delayed. A pilot was standing right next to her and said, "usually they make a PA announcement and they check the system to make sure everyone is on." Well, not this time!! As the volcano in my head exploded onto the wide-eyed airline representative, she stuttered, "I'm sorry, you can talk to my team lead" several times, and I moved my demon wrath over in her direction while John pretended they had let me out of the asylum too early and started the process of getting us on the next flight. While she was doing that, someone came and whispered something to her, and she looked at us and said, "the plane you were going to be on is de-boarding now because something is wrong with it, so you're probably getting out of here sooner than you would have if you'd gotten on!" Oh, okay, then. Cheery-oh! About two minutes later, the poor saps who had just boarded our original flight started shuffling off, miserable.

We ran back to the hated skylink and got to our terminal about 20 minutes before boarding our new flight. While we were standing there, a horrible revelation hit me: "Nobody mentioned our luggage." I fretted about it for the entire flight: I had to be at work the next morning, all of my toiletries were packed in our checked bags, nobody was going to be delivering any luggage to our stupid house at stupid midnight in our stupid town, and that was IF our stupid luggage wasn't completely lost or sabotaged by the airline representative I'd exploded on, etc. John thought since some of the other people from our original flight had managed to make it to our new one in time, that maybe the airline had been on top of their game and had managed to get our luggage on our new flight. Damn him for getting my hopes up. We got home and the throngs of happy people grabbing their appropriately located belongings cleared out of my line of vision just as that final harbinger of doom rolled onto the luggage claim area: the empty, upside-down black tupperware-looking container that says, "that's all the bags we could find on this here plane." We filled out all the necessary forms and drove home while John again listened to my tirade about my most hated airline and my most hated airport and how I'll NEVER use them again, I don't care HOW I have to get around it, IT WILL NOT HAPPEN.

Because of all the delays, the kids were exhausted when we got home, but that didn't stop both of them from uncharacteristically running up to us and smothering us in hugs and kisses, smiles, "Happy Mother's Day!"s and "Did you bring us presents?"s. I picked Quinn up to hug him after we all got inside, and he laid his head on my shoulder and said, "I want to go to bed." So much for quality time with the kids after getting home, like I had originally planned. The rest of the night was spent cleaning and fretting about our luggage, until John finally decided to go back to the airport so I would stop my incessant nagging already. An hour later, he was home with our luggage.

So I guess in this case, all's well that ends well. I didn't show up in sweats and with unkempt hair at work the next day, the kids went down peacefully, and I even had time to vacuum the dog hair that had somehow been multiplying in hordes during our (and the dog's!) absence before going to bed that night.

Oh - and John is working on the pictures from our trip. They're coming later this week.

Wish You Were Here

Managing to keep a daily log when you wake up, shower, drive, see all the things in the pictures included here, drive some more, eat, drink, drive some more, return to the hotel and crash in exhaustion and wake up and start all over again has proven much more challenging than I expected. Plus, 0ur wireless connection is spotty at best. So between lack of time, lack of energy, and lack of reliable internet connectivity, all I can manage to pull together is a sampling of some of the results of our incessant driving. Trust me, this is only the tip of the iceberg. And we promise to divulge much more upon our return to the Fringe.

Until then, enjoy this postcard, Internet.

Oregon: They like their trees here.

And their vineyards.

Because vineyards result in this yummy magic.

But it's not all nature here. See? They have buildings in their cities, too.

Of course, they're surrounded by what? Trees. Always with the trees and the nature and the "good for the environment" - Oregonians think they're better than us? Well, they're totally right.