Thoughts on Family Travel...

Holiday travel. Every year I say never again. Yet every year I find my hands on the wheel. Sure, getting away is fun. Seeing family is great.  But the getting there, that is tough sledding.

It starts with a three year old. Not easy, right? Add two dogs, one on each side of the little guy and now we’re getting close. Okay stuff the car to the gills and then pretend that you abhor being confined to a seat for more than a half hour or so. 

Now we’re cooking.

I'm sure that some of you out there drive all the time, and you may like nothing more than hitting the open road at full speed. Well, God bless you for it. Me? No, not my thing. I-81, with its steep inclines and trucks and constant road construction? I’d rather chew on a rusty wad of steel wool. 

My whole family was packed into that car. The only thing missing was a jar around my neck with our two little goldfish. One wrong move, me or the other guy and well...it’s more than my nerves can take. That’s why I chug along at a paltry 68-72 mph. I pass cops with a smile. The Fast and the Furious? I’m not what would be considered the ideal demographic.

Our journey began in Virginia and ended in the North Country, a mere 50 miles from the Canadian border. All in all it was something to the tune of 26 hours in that car with stops at the downtown Hilton in Scranton, Pa, both there and back. And By the way, those good people at the Hilton are top notch, and I highly recommend their hotel if you’re travelling with pets. Last time up  I chose a roadside motel to save a buck with the expected results.

But nope, this time we spent the extra money and got fancy. Two queen beds meant one for mother and child and one for man and dogs. It's funny because I used to leave a hotel room in a daze. A fog of cigarette smoke hanging and a string of beer cans strewn along the floor. Now it's Goldfish crumbs and baby wipes. 

Times change.

Dogs. Boy was that something. After the first time they flat out refused to get back in that elevator. A fool-me-once sort of deal. So then it was three flights of stairs whenever I had to let them out or in. Other than that they were well behaved. Even Mason, our neurotic husky mix did okay. A few pants and some trembling at times when traffic got hairy, but hey, the same went for me.

The kid. He did great too. Minimal napping and maximum discomfort, and yet he handled most of it like a champ. At one point, there was us, in the empty hotel lobby/bar, drinking a draft and trying to de-frazzle ourselves while our kid played with his tractor on the floor. Sure, there were those times on the road, when he’d yank at his car seat belt while shouting, “Get me out of here!” Then again, I did the same thing.

On the way home—which became the longest effing trip home since trips and homes and roadside mowing was invented—we hit a snag in traffic and came to a lurching halt on the interstate. My son, awake but weary, piped up from the back.

“We’re going home?”

“Yes son.”

“We’re going home really slow?”

“Yep.”

Home. There’s nothing better. Walking into that familiar place, with its smells and sounds and comforts. With its absence of traffic and lurking dangers. Where the dogs sleep without worry and snore through the night. Where the stress melts away. Where my kid isn’t tying a leash to the hotel chair or eating with a plastic spoon. Where there are no elevators or parking garages or check out times. Home. Where all is well.

Happy Holidays.

Are You Happy?

“Are you happy, Daddy?”

This is the newest question in our house. Whenever I tell my son not to do something, like, say not to throw his food. He’ll stop mid-throw, sort of tilt his head at me, and then,

“Are you happy, Daddy?”

“I am, bud. And well played by the way.”

Then, fifty percent of the time at least, bread takes flight.

But I am happy. Happy that he’s happy. Mostly, I mean there's always the occassional crushing blow for an almost three-year-old: Bedtimes, bath time, words that end with time and don't begin with play. Maybe when he can’t have a cookie, but overall, yes, he’s happy. So I’m happy.

His newest activity is riding a bike around the house. And by around I don’t mean literally, but more through the house. Down the hallway, into the kitchen, peddling away down the living room and making a hairpin turn back around again. And the imagination this kid has, the other day he fell, and got all sorts of upset because he dropped the imaginary cookies he was bringing to me.

Sometimes it can be hard to keep track of what's going on. I mean, it can be alligators roaming the living room, a lion down the hallway. The bike mysteriously “smokes” and has to be repaired. Oh, and anything can become a lawn mower.

The other day all of this was happening, nearly simultaneously, when I looked at my wife.

Can you believe this? We have a three year old.

Almost three at least, and man the house is jumping, with the alligators and all. My wife and I were thinking about calling an exterminator, but our son spotted us talking, like adults, and came to a skidding halt on the bike.

“Are you happy Mommy? Are you happy Daddy?”

“Yes son, we’re happy.”

In Here, Out There

Part of being a parent—besides vacuuming up Goldfish cracker crumbs—is creating a safe place for a child. 

No. Matter. What.

Not quite three, my son is blissfully unaware of the news. And by news I mean all the crummy things happening in the world. He knows our house. His books. Toys. A couple of cartoons. Entirely too much about lawn mowing. And now he's discovered chocolate, so, life is good.

But when I turn on the television, ready to flip on Curious George but then pause because something in the news has caught my attention--maybe a headline about another mass shooting, or a bombing or a protest, could be a manhunt or kidnapping, wreck, hostage, drowning, fire, flood or famine--he’ll call to me, with wondering eyes that beg to know what I’m doing. Then I remember. The cartoon.

Recently I came across a speech from years ago. Reagan, addressing the country before we bombed Libya. It was posted it on Facebook for some political reason or another, but I found myself remembering that speech. More specifically, remembering the exact moment.

I was a kid, in our basement of our little house.The good old 1980's, back when the world was great. At least for me. My parents had bills and worries and the world had crime and injustice. But for me, everything was GI Joe and Knight Rider. The Cosby Show, Family Ties and the like. Our house was my refuge from school, the world....you know, Out There.

But in our basement that night--with Reagan, going on about those strikes on Libya to oust Gadhafi from power and how the middle east was in turmoil--a big old chunk of Out There cut right into my regularly scheduled programming. And it was a little bit scary.

Who knew the world was such a mess? Not me. Not then. I was surrounded by love and music. Allowed to be a kid, to do goofy kid things and build forts or complain about a tear in my parachute pants. How I needed a new pair of sneakers.

But that Reagan moment sticks out because of that brief glimpse of out there all over my parents' faces. Silent and glued to the television, just for a second, just like me when I hear about things going on out there now. I was safe because my parents made sure of it.

In Here.

Now it’s my turn. Even though things move quicker now—at least the news does. But it's my job to create In Here, and let Out There come later. He'll get plenty of it later...

The Boot Search

For the past two weeks there’s been nothing but the talk of boots in our house. Not just any boots. The little boots I left on the roof of the car after we got pictures done. The pictures that were taken at a farm off of a winding, unmarked road.

Before bed. “Daddy left my boots on the car.”

Upon waking up. “Daddy, I want my boots.”

Mom’s gotten in on the action too. “We should go look for them."

"I wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, they were $14.99 at Sam’s Club.

"But they aren’t in stock now, and all the other boots are expensive."

My wife knows how I work. And she knows that the mere mention of expensive—set to the backdrop of my son’s pouting was enough to do the trick. So Saturday, he and I loaded up in the car and went on a frivolous boot search.

He was still in his pajamas. Although he was wearing his rain boots. Lucky for me I hadn’t left those up on the roof or there would have been hell to pay. Honestly, I was only going to search so that I could say that we’d searched. It was drizzling and wet. A gray morning that was better suited for sleeping in. Yet I was going to comb the side of the country road for boots.

Like I was saying, the farm is about 20 miles away. Tall grass and fencing on either side. Cows. Horse poop. Did I mention it was raining? Okay, good.

We pulled into the driveway. I handed my son a baggie of oldish to occupy him while I roamed the side of the road. He was still buckled in his car seat and content to nibble while did things you just have to do when you're a dad.

Sprite bottles. Fast food. Wrappers, beer cans. I glanced back to the car, safely tucked away at the entrance to the farm. 

A few more steps. About to give up when, a boot! Sticking out of the tall grass. My eyes lit up. “No effing way.”

A car sped past. I turned to see our own car, getting small in the distance. Not good. I needed to hurry up and find the other boot. Energy drinks. Coffee cups. Man, people really like to litter. But there was no time for high horses or soap boxes....I needed the other shoe.

And then there it was. The other boot. I picked it up and turned around. Sprinted to the car, elated that I would be able to get to sleep guilt free tonight. I slowed down, tapped on the windo to to the car. My son’s face lit up like Christmas morning.

My boots!”

Then he went right back to the goldfish.