A week ago or so, I pulled one of those momma-moves that we all do, and we pretty much all hate. I bragged about how awesome my traveling road tripping kids were, and pretended I had the solutions to road-trippin’ bliss. Last night, my kids, Max in particular, kicked me in the ass. They destroyed me. They gave me a dose of reality that said “ya think we are roadtripping angles? think again sucka…” Well. At least that is what I think Max was saying as I tried to squeeze my extra 30 pound post-pregnancy ass between two car seats in the back of a suddenly two small VW Passat, doing car yoga and juggling pitas, milk, easter chocolate and everything else I felt smushed into the seats (thank-god for vinyl) but couldn’t see while desperately searching for spitted out soothers.
Following our “fantabulous roadtrip” I didn’t think twice about doing a 4 day grandparent tour of Southern-Ontario (which includes about 15 hours of driving time over 4 days, not to mention delays not accounted for resulting from a sleep-deprived mom making a wrong turn and lasting an hour before she realized that the new sights and signs she was seeing had not magically appeared over night, but in fact were on a road going as far away from where she was headed as possible….and of course the dad-infused delay which for Max included a close up of a whoo-ooo-whoo-ooo (police car) as a friendly officer handed Rob a speeding ticket.) This, followed by a one day of turn around, and flights to my dads’ in Florida seemed to be a great idea a week ago. Right now, I am blogging to avoid thinking about the possibility that the next 24 hours might actually really suck and that our flight to Florida might rival our trip back from Mexico times 2: We were that Family
All signs are pointing to this. My day of laundry bliss has been upheaved by a massive snow melt, which has resulted in our septic tank having issues, and nothing being able to drain from the house. Trust me, I learned this the hard way when the water for a laundry load full of poop-filled cloth diapers flooded all over the floor.
The few clothes other than PJs that actually fit me right now are covered with last night’s soggy pitas and baby puke. A shower is out of the question.
Florida, you may smell us and hear us coming before you see us.
I pity the fool who sits in seat 38C headed to Fort Myers via New Jersey, and pray that you will be a kind, gentle and understanding type with no sense of smell and a good sense of humour.