Posts Tagged ‘curse’

12
Aug

Clean-up on Aisle Six: The Vacation Curse, part 3….

   Posted by: Ashley Moreno    in Chaos, Food Allergies, Parenting, random funny stuff

So the traffic clears, and now I’m explaining to the children that Elvis Presley did NOT sing Purple People Eater when I look at the clock and realize that because of our lunch stop at Chuy’s (I should really be getting some kind of kick-back for the promo) and the traffic jam in San Antonio, our five-hour drive from Austin to The Valley is going to take us eight hours. IF we don’t stop for potty breaks along the way (quit laughing–it could happen). Lovely….

Three pit-stops and 4,863 choruses of “Well I saw the thing comin’ outta the sky” later, we pull into the in-law’s driveway. The kids are bouncing with excitement to see their grandparents. So am I; my in-laws are awesome! I just wish they lived, well…somewhere else.

Every year as we prepare for the trip, I ask The Hubby to please talk to his dad about throwing some bromine tablets down into their cistern to kill the mosquitos. See, they have this old cistern left over from the days when there were no city services in their neighborhood. It serves two purposes: one, it makes my MIL’s yard an oasis of greenery in an otherwise barren landscape, as the ivy and various flora thrive on the moisture; and two, it provides a never-ending source of mosquitos. So this year when The Hubby finished talking to his parents on the phone, I asked not-too-optimistically, “Did you talk to him about the bromine?” He forced a smile and answered “Dad said there aren’t any mosquitos this year.”

Which would be great, except there are never any mosquitos any year. Until we get there, evidently. In the time it takes us to get from the driveway to the living room, Ethan already has six angry red welts rising up on his limbs. I assure him that my incredible mommy-foresight has led me to already write “Caladryl” on our shopping list for tomorrow.

The next day we head out for Torture. I mean Target. Although when you have four kids in tow, there’s really not much difference, is there? The Hubby tries to convince me to settle for the much-closer Wail-Mart, but I hold out. Then we pass a brand-new SuperTorture only a few miles away. I’m ecstatic–SuperTorture is way better than RegularOldTorture. Too late. The Hubby’s internal GPS is set on the old Torture, and resetting it to turn left HERE instead of continuing on 7 miles, exiting, turning right, and winding through three parking lots is only an option with the upgraded model. Which is, of course, out of the question (because this model is really, really cute). I smile. I’m on vacation. No worries, mon.

Now, the whole reason for the shopping trip–which is an annual tradition in and of itself–is that when you travel 560 miles for 10 days with 4 kids and 3 food allergies, you need your own food. Food that is available at SuperTorture. But not at RegularOldTorture. Horizon Organic Milk, people–is that too much to ask? Yes, yes it is…. I scrawl my list of “everything-I-couldn’t-find-and-will-have-to-run-to-Wail-Mart-for” in the margin.

As far as my children are concerned, the only reason to step foot inside a retail establishment is if there is the promise of visiting the toy department. The other 127,000 square feet are just wasted space. The 5 year-old is bored and wants to know when we’re going back to grandma’s. The 10 year old is angry because I won’t let him have a soda. The 4 year-old wants my undivided attention, and to get it he starts pulling clothes off of the racks onto the floor. And all the while they are narrating, soundtracking, and announcing. So my head is filled with “This is boring. When are we going to grandma’s? Why do we have to be here? Can I have vanilla milk? Look–that sign says….” and “bip-bip-bip-bip-bip-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-POP! POP! POP!” and “Mama…mama…mama…mama…mama…”

And they’re following me….

By myself, I have a hard time staying on task. You may have seen me in the grocery store–I’m the one talking to myself: “tomato sauce, cheese, Triscuits…tomato sauce, cheese, Triscuits…tomato–oh look, yogurt’s on sale!” Armed with a list I am still unable to achieve higher than a 87% task-completion rate. Add 4 children to the cart and I’m done for.

So by the time we’ve covered the whole store, I am a nervous wreck. Mason has messed up my hair and pulled off one of my earrings. Twice. The Soundtrack is fed up with The Narrator and is telling her so. The crease that runs down the bridge of my nose is deeper, and the left corner of my mouth is twitching uncontrollably. Then Mason decides he doesn’t want me touching HIS shopping cart, and procedes to pull my hands off of the cart handle shouting “NO! NO! NO!” At this moment, I am thinking what a waste of space having a Starbucks in Target is, and how much more relevant a tequila bar would be. A tequila bar with drop-in child care.

Ethan, my 10 year-old with a heart-o-gold, takes a break from fighting with his sister, steps up to the plate and says “Mom, I’ll push the basket for you.” That might be just what I need. I cede cart duty to my son and proceed to precede the basket.

It is worth mentioning at this point that one of the hallmarks of Down syndrome is “ligament laxity.” Basically, it means that their joints fit together loosely. In practical parenting terms, it means that they have the ability to reach behind them–far behind them–without rotating their trunk, enabling them to grab objects undetected. Objects like, oh…I don’t know…let’s say a six-pack of Sam Adams.

CRASH! Glass breaking, beer splashing, the other three kids screaming. Chaos. Complete and utter chaos. Except for Mason. He is a little island of tranquility, intently watching the reactions of the rest of his family. And why not? His work here is done.

A sea of red shirts descends upon our chaos with rags and mops and buckets. Which is kinda funny, because The Hubby is actually wearing a red shirt, so I’m sure passersby think he’s a slacker-employee, watching the rest of his teammates work while he watches. But I have to admit, the only thing I was thinking at the time was that only five of the six bottles broke, and since they weren’t labled for individual sale they were going to have to toss that last one anyway, so would it really be inappropriate for me to ask if I could have it? Because at this point I really needed it….

Next time: The actual reunion: Mason chasin’ and the rules as they apply to marriage and concussions….

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3
Aug

Gee honey, why don’t we take vacations more often?

   Posted by: Ashley Moreno    in Chaos, Food Allergies, Parenting, Uncategorized, random funny stuff

You may have noticed that I haven’t posted in a while. If you haven’t, please don’t tell me–I’m kinda fragile that way. Let’s just both pretend that you missed me, and everything will be fine.

I have just arrived back from our annual 8-day mega-pilgrimage to the Rio Grande Valley, only this year our 8-day pilgrimage was actually a 10-day pilgrimage due to a family reunion that required us to be safely landed and unloaded at my in-laws by Friday. And technically I haven’t just arrived back; we got back three days ago, but it took me a while to unpack my mind. Same with my suitcase.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the mega-pilgrimage. Every year (hence the ‘annual’ part) we pack the Suburban up to the roof with four kids, twice as many outfits as we’ll wear, half as many DVDs as the kids will require, and two-weeks worth of food to satisfy the various food-issues, and set out on a trip that used to take us 10 hours back before we had kids, but which now takes about 4 hours longer and must be broken into two days of pure mind-clawing torture thanks to the efforts of the Soundtrack, the Narrator, and Ferris Beuler’s Teacher.

You’ve already met the Soundtrack and the Narrator (…with Liberty and Justice for All). Ferris Beuler’s Teacher (FBT) is a 30-pound public address system whose greatest fondness lies in repeating names over and over. Due to sheer probability I’m the target 87% of the time. In action, it sounds something like this:

“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Mama?”
“What?”
“Mama?”
“What is it, dear?”
“Mama?”

The game usually culminates in the target yelling “WHAT DO YOU WANT CHILD?” which is immediately followed by the target being reminded that she is an adult and really needs to remain calm. Which is in turn followed by some snarling and pouting and some daggers being shot from eyes and the words “He started it.”

By the time we completed the first leg of our journey, half of the passengers of the Suburban were ready to strangle the other half, and the feeling was pretty mutual. We spilled out of the overpacked vehicle into the tranquility of my sister’s house on what used to be Lake Travis (and is now a giant sandpit), ready to infect her abode with our chaos.

Now, my hubby is not at all the superstitious sort, but he nonetheless believes there is a certain travel curse that follows me on vacation like the blue-gray smoke out of a 1972 Buick Regal’s tailpipe. According to him, anywhere I go there is bound to be drama, injury, and (of course) the requisite chaos.

Never let it be said that I would disappoint the hubby.

Within moments of entering the house, Mason made a bee-line for a huge framed print on the other side of the great room. He’s fascinated by object d’art that hang on walls, and is obsessed with the notion of freeing them from their seeming captivity. Either that or he figures it would make a pretty cool crashing sound. Seeing him reach up toward the frame, I sprinted across the room to stop him. At full speed, my left foot hit the new blue area rug, which had apparently been purchased from the Acme Cartoon Rug store. The edge my foot was planted on skidded across the floor to meet the opposite edge where my son stood on tiptoe, reaching for the frame, the expanse between the two edges rippling like oversized corrugated metal. Arms poised to the sides like a surfer on a blue shag wave, I skidded to a less-than-graceful stop, while Mason found himself landing with a ‘thud’ on his diaper. Of course, in the process I managed to pull every muscle on the left side of my body.

After my brother-in-law assured me that the frame was so securely mounted to the wall that not even Mason could dislodge it (which I highly doubt…), and after a wonderful meal of grilled chicken sandwiches and a much-needed Shiner, the brother-in-law brought out my niece’s set of stacking blocks. Titled “Attack of the 50 Foot Baby,” each cube-shaped block is made of heavy-duty laminated cardboard, open at the bottom, designed to look like part of a high-rise building with hysterical scenes of people carrying out various absurdities (like bathing cats or throwing TV sets out of windows). When stacked, they reach a combined height of about three feet. But of course the point of the game is for the 50 foot baby to knock them down–a game Mason excells at, I might add. It was funny to watch, right up until the open edge of one of the blocks caught me in the face, driving my upper lip into the edge of my front tooth with the force of…well, I can’t think of a witty comparison, but it was something with a lot of force–enough so to leave me with a busted, bloody lip.

Curse: 2, Me: 0

Obviously, the problem was that Mason had been cooped up too long–first in the car, now in the house. A walk would cure all our ills.

One doesn’t take Mason for a walk. One follows Mason and tries to keep him from eating strange plants or picking up spiders or making dirt angels. So Mason led down the excruciatingly-steep hill to the boat dock, and I followed. And then carried him back up when his little legs proved unable to make the journey. He ran down the road, I followed. Again and again. And again. It started to rain, much to Mason’s delight, and there was no convincing him to head back toward the house, so I had to carry him, writhing and wailing all the way.

I have been told more than once by self-proclaimed experts on the matter that Croc flip-flops should never, ever be worn on wet surfaces. Given the source, I figured it was more a alcohol issue than a footwear issue. My theory was dismissed the minute my foot hit the front porch.

There is a motherly instinct that will keep a child safe even at the sacrifice of the mother’s own body. As I went down, that instinct wrapped my hand around Mason’s head and twisted my body so that I took the force of the fall…directly on my already-blown-out right shoulder.

As I lay dazed on the cement, Mason uncharacteristically calmed by the commotion, I realized that the only thing worse than the pain that told me I had now pulled every muscle on the right side of my body was the fact that my sister and brother-in-law, in their infinite attention to all things that epitomize style, had a full-length glass entry door that allowed the hubby a perfect view of my performance.

In case you’re keeping score: 3-0. Not in my favor. And we’re only 6 hours into our vacation….

I wish I could tell you it ended there, that the rest of our trip passed by in blissful uneventfulness. But then, that would be someone else’s blog now, wouldn’t it?

To be continued….

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