the curse of the vacation gods

Based on two recent attempts to flee suburbia and go on vacation, I realize the universe is telling me something.

Which is to park my ass at home until the offspring are in college.

It started in March. Spring break was calling. We made plans to see friends who are perfect in every way except where they live. Really, they could be more considerate and move closer. We packed up the brood and headed to Northern California to the most pleasant of locations, Pleasanton.

You can't NOT enjoy someplace called Pleasanton. It is like being transported back to the 1950s. The streets are tree-lined and teeming with smiling, disease-free people. The downtown street reminds me of Mayberry, complete with a drive-through dairy built in 1900 that features the best soft-serve around.

So I hear. I didn't actually have the soft-serve, walk around downtown or do anything remotely vacation-like. The first day of the trip was spent doling out Children's Advil to the eldest bubba, redecorating the hotel room so the twins couldn't break stuff, then playing musical beds until two am. The second day we were zombies and sat by the hotel pool all day to let housekeeping do their thing, including fix an overflowing toilet. The third day I spent in the ER with the eldest for a breathing treatment (but a nice, pleasant hospital, natch). The twins were good enough to save their colds for the drive back.

For Mother's Day I had the brilliant idea of going away for ONE NIGHT. I don't see my brother enough. My mother cobbled together a plan for us to all meet at his house in Santa Two Hours Away, cook, drink and then go home. The best part was no kids. Just me, my minivan and an air mattress.

Bliss! Just one night!

It started out really nice. We drank champagne, made bad jokes, ate delicious steak. I lay down on my air mattress in the guest room, raised my head once to make sure there really were no other humans with me, then fell into a blissful sleep.

For two hours. I was awakened by the sensation of being sliced in half. I sat up and felt a terrible sense of doom. I bolted for the bathroom and will spare you the details about what happened over the next four hours.

Somehow I made it home. The drive that was serene and peaceful heading north was now the bane of my miserable, gassy existence. But it was Mother's Day. I was allowed, no legally entitled?,  to rest and be pampered. As I headed into Ventura County I savored the fantasy of collapsing in my already-made bed, catching up on several hours of REM sleep, then being summoned for a fine French meal on nice china, seated next to my quiet and already-bathed children.

I am ridiculous.

The twins were experiencing a similar GI occurrence which meant the mister was doing loads of laundry. He also hadn't really slept. I know this because when I pulled into the driveway and was about to explain my terrible night parked in the bathroom, he handed me a child and said, "I am going to bed."

So there you have it, faithful readers. Through some curious wiring of the planets and stars, I am fated to remain at home. It's safer for me here.

Oh. But please be nice and send me a postcard from wherever you are. I'd love to here how your freaking get-away is going.

Just like starting over

Okay. I know. It has been months, MONTHS, since I have written. But going off to war is hard. I had to be focused, diligently working to achieve the goal I had worked months to prepare for.

You got me. I didn't go OFF to war. I remained at home, here, where life with three boys often resembles a war zone. Don't give me that look. These people are like insurgents. Unpredictable, obstinate. Almost impossible  to understand. Many a time I could have used an interpreter. They also like to lob things, and urinate outdoors.

I know life has been tough for you without this little ray of sunshine. I will do better. I have to! Our freedom and way of life depend on it!