As is always the case, all good things must come to an end. It was difficult to admit that our vacation was wrapping up and that we would have to caravan back to Maryland and then venture home. I was not terribly interested in getting back in the car with The Vomiter (H). I wanted to get back on a plane with H and Baby C even less!
And so with heavy hearts, and de-vomited Dodge Nitro rental, we headed South.
1. Mr. Smith yelled at our children, while we were lost in Virginia, attempting to find our way to our Georgetown hotel, “For the love of God, shuuuut UUUUUPPPP!” I don’t think Baby C has ever even heard him raise his voice, so she just about jumped out of her skin, and burst out crying. H was already completely fried from too much travel and not enough food, so he burst out crying. Nothing like a family trip to draw everyone closer together!
2. Mr. Smith (new to the Waverly area) was unaware of the fact that a portion of the famed River Road is a one-way road. As he drove the wrong way, the natives shouted at him as he drove past. Afraid of incurring the wrath of the locals on his return trip, he looped the really really long way around to get back home.
3. One of our 10 person caravan party ended up in this urgent care during our return trip. After much discussion, this person (who shall remain nameless, Vertigo B respects HIPAA around here, people!) ended up being taken by ambulance from this lovely Urgent Care Facility
to spend an all expenses-paid, fun-filled night in a hospital with a guest of their choice. These nice people even accept patients that just happen to be driving by and having a health crisis! At the end of the whole thing, despite the stress, extra driving and turmoil, everything is okay…not to worry. All 10 people participating in said caravan are intact and relatively healthy.
4. In Dulles airport, Baby C and I got on the wrong shuttle, almost taking us to the wrong terminal, thus almost missing our flight. Mr. Smith and H were standing outside screaming at us to get off the shuttle, I could not hear him and was already pretty pissed that we were so late AGAIN. We got off the stupid shuttle and sprinted to the right shuttle. As we were
strolling clambering onto the correct shuttle, H’s 1,234 foot long shoelaces (don’t ask) got stuck in the super safe grate, immediately causing H to do a dramatic faceplant in front of the stroller that I am pushing at top speed. I almost ran him over in my haste to get on the right goddamn shuttle.
Dulles Airport has the stones to call these damn things “Mobile Lounges.” It has made me hate the marketing people at Dulles. Looks nice and comfy doesn’t it? Cuz it isn’t. And the people were almost as hostile as a bunch of Southern Californians!
5. As we were checking our luggage, H spots a set of presidential toy cars for sale at the handy dandy airport gift shop. Of course, he completely ignores the fact that he already owns this particular gift item (courtesy of Aunt Michele, thank you). He flips out and chants through the luggage check-in, security
fiasco line, and sprint to our gate, “I need Barack Obama’s motorcade! I need Barack Obama’s motorcade!” As we arrived at the gate, H really got going, throwing himself on the floor, and Mr. Smith encouraged me to ignore him. Mr. Smith and I had a micro spat about that, since it is impossible for me to ignore a short person following me around, yelling at me. Call me kooky, my ears just don’t work that way.
6. As we were exiting the stupid shuttle thingy, we had so much crap that we left the all-important diaper bag behind. A very long-suffering gentleman was kind enough to hand it to me as he gave me an exasperated look while exit
ing the stupid shuttle-thingy. For his kindness, he was rewarded by not only being on our flight, but he was further punished for his good deed by having to sit next to our loud cranky asses. That’s right, MISERY is embroidered into our family crest, bitches!
7. Once we arrive at LAX, aka Hell on Earth, we were taking a Super Shuttle to our home. We waited for said shuttle. Since we had 8,371 bags, we reserved our own van. Immediately after the van pulls up, H launches into an epic tantrum, screaming, crying and chanting over and over again, “I wanna go home to Maryland! I wanna go home to Maryland and Pop Pop!” Because of the hysteria, the driver proceeds to break every California traffic law and get us home in record time (I am thinking, chiefly to get the little butthead out of the car). That would have been fine, if there had been ANY shock absorbers on the van. It was like riding in a Conestoga Wagon at about 85 mph.
8. H woke up at 2:30 the next morning. He was on Eastern Daylight Time and would not be negotiated with on the point of sleep. We got up. It was an incredibly long ugly day. Turns out, H is now juuuust tall enough to set off the burglar alarm. Not the little innocuous beeping of the door opening and closing. Nope, the actual 5-alarm siren that screams out the chimney. He set it off and Mr. Smith and I did not realize what the odd noise was until after the alarm company had called AND had alerted the police. At this point, I informed H that he would be going to jail for his crimes. He protested, so I made sure that he saw the friendly deputy and was exactly afraid enough to nip his one man crime spree in the bud (or butt as Mr. Boss used to say). It was all he could talk about for the rest of the long ass day.
9. Mr. Smith do you have anything else to add?
I am not sure what the moral of this story is. I guess I just hope you found it entertaining. I don’t know, I feel a little better now, don’t you?