If Happy Little Bluebirds Fly Beyond the Rainbow . . . .

"Why oh why can't I?"

We've been running like crazy, but now that my syllabi are made, and I'm nearly done with the research for a presentation in a couple of weeks, you'll see a flurry of posts attempting to summarize the last couple months of summer vacation.

It's funny though, even as I write that time line--the last two months--and blame my lack of posting on work, because Big has ramped up his two-year-old-ness in a major way. And that has definitely contributed to the lessening of my degrees of freedom.

Between him and Eight, I am reminded of that Office Depot back-to-school commercial where the kids are moping around the store and the mom is skipping about grabbing school supplies.

Ahhhhh back to school.

Big has taken a reverse in his ability-to-exist-independently, not because he has no interest in being without me, and not because he is physically unable, but because he is so incredibly destructive. Destructive to stuff, himself and other people. My ears are now keenly perked toward any quiet in the house, and my eyes to any little gleam in his own eyes announcing some diabolical idea to throw, hit, climb, jump off of, open, close, swing from, pour out of, rip, or tear.

I never understood before (or cared really) about the degree to which each alcoholic drink lessens one's reaction time. But now I need to be at the top of my game just to keep up with him. If he's tired or hungry, that just compounds the issue.

So I guess that is why the following two incidents, which occurred at an upstate Minnesota Resort that we attended with the Family-of-Six recently, incidents that were really OUR own fault, not the growing and over-tired Big, and his increasing interest in speed, aggression and all-round adventure.

On one lovely evening, while the adults gathered in our semi-circle of chairs overlooking the lake for the requisite evening cocktail, the kids were running around, letting off steam, and getting ready for dinner themselves.



We had brought Big's Skuut, which goes everywhere with us now. It feels, to me, like a necessary appendage to an already overburdened Sherpa. But it makes him happy once we're where we need to go, and, as is always on our checklist of goals for any given day, it works to wear him out.

He's gotten better about being aware of the ends of sidewalks, driveways, and roads, etc., but often forgets to protect his main mode of breaking (his feet) with shoes.




Often he'll hop on, already gathering speed before I realize that he won't be able to stop himself without bloodying his toes, and head off after him, Crocs in hand.

On this particular occasion, I was pre-drink, but overestimated Big's ability to negotiate the terrain. He had headed off, and reached the top of a little downhill when he turned to see me coming, Crocs in hand.

With a shit-eating grin on his little face (and I know this is an over-used term, but it just fits his naughty, nothing-but-potential-grin so well), he turned away, toward the lake with ever more resolve.

I expected him to reach the sidewalk and the flowerbed below, and to hear screams from the stubbed toe he'd get from stopping himself.

Instead, I caught up with him in time to watch his front wheel bump up and over the end of the flower bed and his body flip up over the four foot wall to the beach.





Luckily, he escaped with only a bump on his noggin.

This was nearly not the case for some unsuspecting swimmers after Big's next "incident".

It is entirely possible that the owners will uninvite us to the resort next year.

It was our last day and BioMom and I had been imbibing in a couple of last-minute vacation beers, on which I blame my slow reaction.

Big was beginning to wind up, not having had a nap, and probably feeling all of our sad, end-of-vacation energy.

He ran over to the shuffleboard game and stole one of those big, clay shuffleboard pucks.

Before I could stop him, he flung it over a deck rail toward the pool deck a floor below. All I could do is run to the edge and warn people below.

Fortunately no one was hurt, but that's the sort of thing that wakes you up from a deep sleep in the middle of the night. Those what if's that you know would have sent your life splaying in a different dimension.

This is all to say that school starts for me next week. I'm back to my commute, but for only one semester. After two years of not commuting I'm of mixed minds on this. I'd rather not be away from home, but am looking forward to a night's break, listening to books on tape, and getting re-involved with a group to which I belong.

Copycat Grocery List: Check. Pint Sized Handcuffs: Check

So Lesbian Dad posted about an adventure-filled visit to the grocer the other day on her blog.

I piped in (a bit too soon, and certainly too insouciantly, as you'll see) about how it gets easier. Not so much that kids don't bolt when they're Eight, its just that you don't worry (care) about it as much. To reiterate my comment over there, you come to realize that there's a window that kidnappers don't want them (when they're not cute babies or cute teenagers I suppose) and they KNOW you have no ransom, so why suffer through the tantrums of a two-year-old or the whines of an eight for a few lousy bucks? With Eight who regularly pushes the limits with how far she'll fall behind on an outing, I suspect to exercise a bit of freedom and personal choice, I usually resort to the "natural consequence" discipline and perk my ears for the potential comment on the loudspeaker blaring my name and my lost child's waiting for me at checkout.

It's actually win-win when you think about it. . .

Anyway. The other night (while the three additional kids and two adults) were visiting we realized at quite a late hour that there was in fact going to be a National Night Out celebration on our block. Big had not napped and was quickly loosing gas, yet I needed to go to the grocery store. I didn't dare leave the one kid nearly voted off the island over the past few days to even my worst enemy and BioMom was not yet home from gathering the bacon.

So off we headed.

The whole way there I attempted to tee up a "quick shop" with him in the big grocery cart, and how we'd go fast like the wind.

When we got there, however, he immediately saw one unused kiddie cart with his name all over it and promptly demanded that he push that instead.

Lesbian Dad's commitment to not use her size/power/strength over the little ones is always in the form of a little devil or angel over my shoulder in such situations, giving advice where needed. Here, I had the time, and possibly the energy to let him push his own cart but, in retrospect, I clearly didn't have the judgment to direct his attention elsewhere and quickly grab him up and into the big cart's kidseat.

Oh, Retrospect, what a frustrating beauty are you?

It all started out okay. He was only distracted for a few minutes with the corner of breakable kid's toys early on in the store, before the veggies and fruit, and I faced an army of friendly shoppers admiring my patience and willingness to shop at a child's pace, and his tedious but determined attempts to move the cart from point A to point B without running over tender Achilles' heels.

He picked out one of those huge bins of organic strawberries on sale now, some onions and asparagus, a lemon and some apples to replenish the refrigerator.

All was going well.

We ran into a parent at Eight's school whom I haven't seen this summer and we got to chatting a bit about the Star Wars Exhibit going on at the Science Museum and Big headed toward the Jelly Belly display, bringing back various options for my review to take home "for the other kids"!

How generous was he to bring a FIVE POUND bag!

I quickly switched it out for a small bag and that marked the beginning of our descent to hell.

He doubled over and screamed that piercing scream that makes you wish you had needles to poke into your eyes and ears to make the pain go away, or at least to inflict more pain in order to make that sound seem relatively less onerous. A veritable symphony in comparison.

The mustard isle distracted him, but now he was on to the Indian pre-made dried meals and got stuck on where to return the box that I refused to purchase.

He gets a little O.C.D.

Two isles later I realized that I had forgotten the pickles. Eff it. There's no going backward now!

We're picking up speed now and I'm leaning down and guiding his little stroller while pulling mine behind me with my less-coordinated lefty, so that it won't hit innocent heels, or dump shelves of canned goods, all to his increasingly loud insistence that HE DO IT!!! Combined with him pulling his little cart away and attempting to fly in the opposite direction: FAST!!! FAST!!! He says.

At this point, the clientèle's are not as impressed and isles frantically clear as we turn corners into them.

I find myself allowing Hershey's strawberry flavor into his cart, something I've never noticed before, let alone purchased, in an attempt to appease his energy and try to tell myself that it is really a feminist purchase as it is pink and I am expanding his options of gender expression through his drink choices.

The syrup bottle had not landed in the basket when Big took the ginormous bin of strawberries and in slow motion, turned it over spilling the entire contents. I felt like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible dropping to within one inch of the floor with my entire body spanning open and reaching for loose strawberries as they rolled aimlessly.

One woman gave me a sympathetic look and I thought: THIS is my life???

By this time, with my attentions occupied, Big was entirely revved up and began, literally, running up and down the isles giggling and screaming with delight. I would see him at one endcap, grabbing product willy-nilly only to immediately toss aside, head that way, and by the time I got there, he'd be at the opposite one.

His glee growing with geometric proportions to my frustration.

At that point One and Two-Of-Four showed up as though planted there in front of me by GOD himself, a chorus of angels and a beam of light shining down on them.

I'll buy you each anything in the store if you help me now!

For a bottle of liquid yogurt and a box of Mike and Ike's I got my pickles and Big through the checkout and into the carseat.

Ahhhhhh.

Nearly priceless.

At the Local Kiddie Zoo

Today with Cousin and Neighbor-Friend-From-Graduate school, five (count 'em, FIVE) kids in tow, ranging from 8 months to 8 years. The whole time I'm thinking to myself: Holy Shit! Some women have this number and this age-range of kids and. . . They're THEIRS!!!

This is Friend's first visit as a parent, and being all relatively neophytes about the whole thing, much parenting discussion ensues over bottles of wine, such as: when you have more than one kid, who gets screwed most? The first or the ones that follow? Or what's up with all those parents sending their kids to genius schools at age five and thinking they're prodigies? You know. Conversations like that.

Or often it is comparing our (little) experience as parents to those of our parents or doing some sort of parent-anthropomorphism where we are suddenly late-sixties, early seventies parents smoking and drinking and talking and spending very little time monitoring our young children.

Friend has a story in which her four year old brother and three year old sister were allowed the freedom of the cul-de-sac to go over to the neighbor's to play. He was subsequently hit by a car and suffered a broken arm.

No wonder we over-parent. . .

Anyway. At the zoo, at one point we were walking over some monkey exhibit (I don't know all monkey species) but it was one of those two-storied, outdoor-indoor exhibits. We were at the upper-outdoor part wandering toward the exit when Big said he wanted to go "in there". I said that sure, I'd throw you in! Then he said: Then I'd be a gorilla and you'd say 'look at that big gorilla'!

Priceless.

What do the Military and the Catholic Church Have in Common?

So we were at one of Eight's school's adult-only functions the other night.

These parties are fantastic. Nothing like a party run by Catholics, if you know what I mean. Let's just say that I wasn't drinking alone at the kiddie pool . . .

Anyway, a few of our friends started discussing a flyer they'd received in the mail from the church on the topic of "Same-Sex Marriage."

My heart sunk.

I seriously must be a masochist. I did run long-distance (track and cross country) in high school. In any case, I thought I had dealt with all of this twenty years ago when I got the boot from the U.S. Air Force Academy when they (and I) realized that I was a lesbian. Now I'm here again, intimately involved in an institution that, by definition, would rather the GLBT crowd not be hanging about.

I ran into the obviously-gay-but-not-out youth minister a day or so later at the coffee shop. He was heading out of town with a few guys, one of whom I'm friends with (his son's in Eight's class). I asked if he'd pass on to me one of the flyers and the usual conversation ensued:

Him: Oh, I didn't even LOOK at that.

I think that's how most people in the parish dealt with it.

I told him that I thought I'd go and talk with the priest a bit. I mean why are they now proselytizing? I mean, we all know some of Catholocism's dark-side beliefs, but many join anyway for cultural reasons or because of the church's liberal, anti-poverty roots. Oh, and the beer.

Then the other guy, my friend, said that he'd like to sit down with me over a cup of coffee sometime and discuss the issue. Then he basically concluded by saying that some Episcopal church is welcoming of gays, implying that we should just put our efforts there.

Alas. It's hard for me to figure out why I'm here again. I mean why even involve myself in an institution that is not supportive? And we're exposing our kids to this too?

Talk about self-destructive.

Big: The Diabolical Little Brother

So, before we had completely given in to consumerism in our parenting, we spent some energy putting off the American Girl Doll purchase for Eight who was, at the time, Five.

Big, for example, "brought" her a look-alike from seemingly inside the womb (or so she thought) when he was born. When friends of hers noticed that the doll she had was not associated with any official American Doll character, we tried to divert her attention (LOOK! A SHOOTING STAR! ala Lesbian Dad) or claim that this doll was, apparently, from a different catalog, but that only worked for so long.

It is not without irony then, that on the way home from dinner last night with MRM#1 and MRM#2's house (aka the Godfathers), he used this doll to torture his sister. This, ultimately discarded and unwanted doll, post arrival of THE American Girl doll. This doll that is usually used to placate her little brother when he wants to play with Kit, or when she has friends over and wants him to get out of her hair a bit, though he does all that he can to keep up with them. It is this doll that she uses.

So when I heard her wailing from the back seat, I had no idea what to expect when I turned around and saw this:



Note the casual way that his hand holds the doll's ankle while the doll itself swings precariously out the window of a moving vehicle and yes, while not the freeway, we were on a busy street.

Oh, and check out that shit-eating grin.

Nice.

While attempting to squelch our howls, BioMom took pictures in the rearview:



The photo I didn't take? His sister's reaction.

Mother-Of-Four on Drinking At the Kiddie Pool

MofF attempted unsuccessfully to comment on my post about drinking alone at the kiddie pool which I had felt was my bottom, the ultimate of pathetic. Not just drinking alone, but drinking alone at the kiddie pool. She pointed out that you can't know what everyone else is drinking there. . . She suspects one out of three have a little spike in their punch!

Ahhhh coping mechanisms.

The Girl Effect

Check it.

BioMom, Esq.

So BioMom's work often spills over into the household. And no, I don't just mean the incessant fiddling with the Blackberry, or the travel, or the "Oh, I'll be home at 6:00" and getting home at 6:45s.

No. Here I'm referring to her tendency to see us as witnesses to whom she can depose.

For those of you readers who are or have been intimate with lawyers, you'll understand. Their logic is a bit funny and I can usually see where I'm stepping when she enters into 'deposition mode'. I know that when she's in that space that anything can and will be used against me, and that it does, in fact, depend on what "is" means.

But I get a little protective of Eight when BioMom directs her inquiries in her direction.

She'll notice, for example, that Eight's bedcovers were in the laundry or that she's suddenly changed her clothes after a playdate:

BioMom: Did you go to the bathroom over at [Sidekick]'s?

I want to intervene: YOU DON'T HAVE TO ANSWER THAT WITHOUT REPRESENTATION! But Eight is already skilled in the slippery logic of the lawyering mind.

Eight: Yes.

BioMom: Did you go while you were at her house?

Eight, somewhat exasperated: Yes!

BioMom: Did you have an accident?

Eight: No.

BioMom: Why did you change your clothes?

Eight, pleading the fifth and remaining silent.

BioMom, persistent: Did you have an accident?

Eight: No.

BioMom: Then why are your shorts wet? Why did you change?

Eight: Well, it wasn't an accident.

BioMom: Did you go to the bathroom.

Eight: Well, no. Not exactly.

And it goes on. Being the straightforward one, I have to leave the room. I guess going to the bathroom does not necessarily mean visiting the toilet.

I've Got To Admit, It's Getting Better

So after nearly loosing my mind last week, and a little bump in the road upon BioMom's return last Thursday (Eight got just a little sassy on Friday morning) BioMom and Mother-of-Four orchestrated a weekend in which I actually rejuvinated. So much so that I held it together when she left again tonight, precipitously at 8 p.m. to the chorus of two kids moaning "Maaaamaaaa.... Mamaaaaa!!! MAMAAAAA!"

As soon as I locked the door behind her, it was all drama, no substance. At one point I even caught them (in separate and unrelated incidents) watching themselves moan and grimace in the mirror.

Priceless.

Anyway, Big's sleeping is relatively back under control and my sanity is somewhat in tact, although I'm sure I'm 10 percent grayer than I was a week ago.

Drinking Alone At The Kiddie Pool

Needless to say, the transition home, post-vacation has been rocky. I can always tell when my mind is full when I don't consider blogging, or when stories for this venue don't form in my head.

After tasting the freedom of "getting me out" of his bed on vacation, Big has been unwilling to go back into his crib for bedtimes, nor has he been willing to move into a "big-boy-bed" (i.e. a mattress on the floor). This has translated into me having little time to either work or to stop and breathe, either during the early afternoon (former naptime) or that quiet time between the kid's bed and our own. This, plus BioMom's recently heightened travel schedule (read: no relief) has seriously put my sanity in question.

Of course, every parent has been through this. No new story. But knowing that other people have lived, and that chances are, I will too, is not always helpful when you're in the middle of it.

Essentially, at bedtime, we go through our whole routine, I put him in his crib, sing a song or two, plant a kiss on his forehead and head out. At unpredictable intervals, he gets out over and over. Supernanny is in my head as I pick him up and without any fanfare, quietly put him back, attempting to ignore his pleas for "more songs".

This can go on for hours. Picking him up, putting him back, him getting up and out and asking for songs. At some point, my arms are sore, the sun is down and I crash in my bed, hoping that I've turned on the alarm so that if he does wander around, at least he won't head outside.

Unsolicited advice has included putting a lock on the outside of the door so that he can't get out of his room.

This feels wrong to me at some in-my-bones level. Not that I'm judging any of you that have done that. His door sticks now, and there are times when he can't get it open and I can hear the terror in his voice. Maybe it's manipulation. If so, I'm manipulated.

The other day, after hours of attempting to get him to nap, and focus on the book review that was due last month, I finally retreated and headed out front only to greet Eight coming home from camp. I saw her and nearly cried knowing that she was right in this moment, that he had taken all of my resources and that I had nothing left to give her other than to direct her to a snack, the television and, ultimately mother-of-four's house for a little playtime.

That night we all headed to the little neighborhood wading pool in an attempt to collectively wear Big out so that the evening would go a bit better.

I was the only adult carrying a G&T, and, after a few sips at the side of the pool, I didn't even mind the few splashes of chlorine that Big had added to the glass.

Irregular Monthly Newsletter: 31 Months

Happy 31 Months, Big!

On your way to three!

One short story, about which I could not even compel myself to photograph. I know that this sounds incredibly cliche, and quite unbelievable, but I literally looked away today, possibly to put something into the refrigerator, or to take out the garbage, and returned to you using your own excrement to draw on the wall.

I didn't even know that you had gone No. 2 (for the third time today. . . You're still recovering from vacation) but you had reached into your diaper and thought to yourself hey! How about a nice mocha-color for the kitchen?

Me and Cousin: Backyard, in Elementary School T-Shirts, Presumably Fall

There is nothing like a box of pictures to encourage nostalgia. For me, however, and, I suspect anyone who has lost family members, the nostalgia feels a bit like being blind, or at least looking through extremely foggy glasses, but without anyone to help clarify the images. Both of my parents are gone and, having followed their footsteps through South Dakota, with nearly the same baggage in tow (an eight year old and a two year old, as opposed to two eights) but a much more comfortable car, I would love to swap stories.

Instead, the pictures are like pieces of a puzzle that I can use to piece together my incomplete childhood memories (Cousin, by the way, whose memory of the trivia, and details of life is impeccable, is of little or no help here).

Back At Home: Old and New Photos

The following are a few pictures from this trip and the one that I took with Cousin, my folks. Sister-in-law gave me a box of old pictures, and I had a few, but not all of the trip from thirty years ago.

I can piece together a few similarities. I guess there are, simply, picturesque shots that everyone seems to gravitate toward. The first two are from the badlands. I'm in the white hat (I LOVED that hat).






The third is my dad standing at the entrance of a tunnel in the Needles. I believe the picture that follows is at the opposite side of that very same tunnel.





This last picture is Cousin and I in the needles, moments before getting lost. I know now where we were, but that is not where Big and Eight and I chose to climb.

Kids: Budles of Joy They Are Not

Cousin just sent me this NPR report from Bryant Park Project:

"Part of our cultural beliefs is that we derive all this joy from kids," says Simon. "It's really hard for people who don't feel this to admit it." Social pressures to view only the positive aspects of child rearing only make the problem worse, she says. "They're afraid to admit it because it runs so counter to our cultural beliefs that children make you happy."

Simon points out what any parent knows very well: Children, especially young children, can create lots of work and stress. "There are very many positive things that come out of having kids, but it's a mixed bag," she says. "They are demanding. They are a responsibility, and it's a responsibility that doesn't end."

And studies have also shown, says Simon, that parental depression increases along with the number of children parents have.

My own personal evidence is an exponential growth in gray hair. Of course, I'll never know if its the kids, life or simply age, but there you go.

Day 14: Independence

We're rounding out our trip now, at my second-oldest brother's in Nebraska.

Aside from about twenty minutes of hell, trapped in a moving vehicle with four people that, at the time, you wish you could walk away from and never see again as long as you live*, this trip, with it's 20 or so odd hours spent in a car, and 14 or so odd nights spent in hotels and in other people's rooms, with vast differences in climates, activities, and food intake (the one constant: alcohol) has been lovely.

Tonight, the Fourth-of-July nearly wraps up our two-week-tour. I will fill in blanks about the sights seen in Cheyenne, but I thought I'd honor the holiday with this post.

We decided to take the kids to the local park where the local symphony would play while we watched the big fireworks show, laying down on blankets with them shooting overhead.

It was a risk.

The music didn't even start until 9:30, the fireworks at 10:00. Big had woken up at 5:40, but fallen asleep with us until eight, but Eight got up with him. There was a big opportunity for a hug meltdown.

We got there early, with tricks up our sleeves for Big and Eight (it helps to have five adults, (me, BioMom, my grown nephew, my brother and my sister-in-law) to spread the burden, and we entered Eight into a pudding eating contest, and my nephew into a hot dog eating contest, to pass the time until nightfall.



The entire event was lovely. Kids roamed everywhere, and there were loads of different kinds of people there. It truly felt like a melting pot. I suppose it is just easy to wax cheeky on Independence day.

By the time the music began, the kids were running on fumes, but it was just enough to get us into the station. The fireworks were brilliant and choreographed perfectly with the music. Big learned the art of oooowing and ahhhing at the appropriate moments and it was topped off with a round of "There is no place like Nebraska" a song in our regular nightly repertoire.

At the end of the show, Big shouted: That's CREDIBLE! Dropping the "in" before "incredible".



We were home by eleven, and brought the kids right up to bed. Tonight though, we let Big fall asleep in our bed as we wrapped things up with the adults. Since our infamous Badlands experience, he's felt free to hop in and out of his crib at naptime and we've been doing that dance at bedtime where he hops out, giddy with his new freedom, demanding kisses, or more milk, or a swift-kick-in-the-ass (thanks Dad for the memories of that saying) before it sticks and he falls asleep. Today even, he took his nap on the little mattress that Eight is using on the floor of the same room.


So, yes, despite our misgivings about this transition (mostly for inconvenience sake) he seems to be moving toward a "big bed" relatively seamlessly.

Here's to independence!



*At one point, after Eight reached up to pull down the little screen from the ceiling in BioMom's behemoth (yes, we are those people who you drive past and have television going IN THE CAR. Yuck. I never thought I'd be that person. . . I keep waiting to drive by a van showing some porno on its little flip-down screen but no. It's just Nemo, Toy Story, and Cars. Nemo, Toy Story and Cars. Oh my!) after I had explicitly flattened it and ixnayed the oviemay, I actually threatened to glue the little door in the ceiling shut with superglue after she reached up to open it again. No less than 10 minutes later after there had been one too many fingers crossing that invisible line running down the middle of the behemoth, into the other kids' territory, I threatened to "pull over the car and make the trip go from six to eight hours!". Not pretty moments on the family vacation. Familiar, but not attractive.

Day 10: The Wager

So on the drive, Big got his first taste of the Lion King soundtrack.

After hearing "I Just Can't Wait To Be King" he was a chorus of again's.

King song. AGAIN!

At one point, Eight chimed in assigning vocal roles for family members.

Eight: I'm the girl!

Me: There is no girl!

Eight: Uh HUH!

Me: What girl? It's just Simba and that bird!

Eight: Uh uh. Nala's in it too! She's singing!

Me: Wanna bet? I'll betcha an ice cream cone!

And so it went.

Note to self: never bet a kid about a kid's movie that you've seen twice (one of the times includes the Broadway production).

We watched it, loudly, tonight with Cousin, Cousin-husband, Cousin-kid-No1, Cousin-kid-No2, and Big, with Cousin in the background singing "I just can't wait for my cone!" while cooking up dinner.

Day 7: My Oldest Brother Comes for a Visit in Cheyenne

I had to jump ahead in time for a moment, will return to days 5 and 6.

Here is a text from Husband-of-Cousin:

"[BlogAuthor's Brother] there yet? Once he arrives there will be more gay people in my house than straight people. That has to be a first in the state of Wyoming."

Day 5: Hot Springs

On the morning of day five, we headed over to Hot Springs to eat at Baker's Bakery Cafe for breakfast, recommended by Sidekick and her parents and then headed down to Hot Springs, our ultimate destination being Cousin's in Cheyenne.

I was still on my childhood re-creation trip when I added Hot Springs to our "to-do" list.

Thirty-odd years ago we stopped at Evans Plunge, which I remembered as the biggest pool I had ever seen in the world (the view I remember looked a bit more like this picture) and, because spring water flows into it (at a rate of 5000 gallons a minute), the water is warm--87 degrees.

As a kid, this was a highlight of the trip.

We arrived at an entirely anti-climatic, small, and seemingly not-updated dirty building with peeling paint on all sides. We were thinking of the four hours of driving ahead of us to Cheyenne when I asked BioMom to take a little 'look-and-see' without promising anything to the kids on whether or not we'd go in for a swim.

She came out all thumbs down. The mineral water makes the whole place sort of smell and it felt really run down to her.

BioMom: Why don't you go in and take a look? Looks pretty gross to me.

I went in and was propelled back in time. I ran back to the car and insisted on the healing powers of the mineral water and that we'd regret this opportunity for nostagia if we didn't spend an hour or so in the pool.

It was all I had imagined (after you got past the clammy feeling of the women's locker room on your feet). I was sure it must have been much worse thirty years ago, as my mother would never have gone somewhere that had banned smoking on its premises.

The water was not as warm as I had remembered (maybe its the added body fat?) but the new slides and outdoor area were fantastic. Eight must have gone down the "plunge" twenty times. It was essentially a slide that dropped 30 feet or so into the water. The smell and feel of the water was rejuvinating and it reminded me of the hot pools in Budapest as well as other natural springs around the world.

We stayed in for about an hour and a half and headed out on the road to big sky country at 85 miles per hour toward Cousin. We luckily followed her advice to get gas as there was literally only about three stations along the way, drove through a small snow storm, past racing coal trains, and vast nothingness toward her house.

Pictures to follow.

Days 3 and 4: "Custard" State Park

With the Badlands in our rear view mirror, and Finding Nemo on the DVD player with the voice of Ellen DeGeneres as Dori correcting the Marlin character when he observed the Whale's belly as being at least half empty ("actually, I see it as half full"), we sped toward Rapid City and Custer State Park (which Eight persistently referred to as "custard" state park) with a renewed, optimistic, sense of hope.

We had planned on traversing the distance between the national park and Mount Rushmore, grabbing lunch at the base of the "four faces" (upon the suggestion of Father-of-Four), checking into the "bunkhouse" at the State Game Lodge, (which, by the way, would turn out to be a charming room with eight single bunk beds) and then on to a Chuck-Wagon dinner by 5 p.m. That, plus I wanted to try to grab a Geocache along the way.

Optimism was not only uplifting, it was necessary.

Here are two pictures that capture the five minutes BEFORE



and AFTER



arriving at Mt. Rushmore.

As I write this, I am sitting in the comfortable home of Cousin, recollecting the nearly 15 hours spent in the car. Of that time, the above picture is literally the ONLY time either kid slept. Eight fell asleep minutes before we rounded the last turn and saw George Washington's nose as though inviting all the nasophiliacs east of the Mississippi.

Then, within minutes of walking to the penultimate position for viewing the faces, it began to hail (talk about 'hail to the chief'!).

Big now reports the story by saying that the "four faces were sad." The rain actually made it look like they had tears on their cheeks:



I remember really being in awe of the actual construction of the 'four faces' when I was little. Marvelling at the relative size of the people hanging from wires and platforms, hammering out the contours of Roosevelt's glasses, the pictures with Washington's face completed but only outlines of the others while the work was in progress. Eight seemed somewhat nonplussed about the whole affair, even after my pointing out the old-timey pictures of the mountain's pre and post-facial.

We left the monument and wound our way through the beginnings of Custer State Park toward our Chuck Wagon dinner through hairpin turns and single-lane tunnels that framed amazing views of the old mountains and one even of Mount Rushmore itself.



It was breathtaking.

The Chuck Wagon dinner was one of those kitchy things we thought we couldn't pass up, but as we wound our way toward the ranch, the sky darkening with storm clouds and the clock inching toward Big's witching hour (that hour where his energy becomes spastic and somewhat uncontrollable), we began to regret the commitment (we prepaid dinner on the credit-card).






It ended up being a really fun evening, although the third picture in my previous triptich captures Big's mood as we rode the bumpy wagon around an entirely-too-long loop toward a steak dinner that he simply refused, choosing instead to play with his cars in the rocks below the table, taking small bites of my offerings, and returning them immediately to the bench above him.


We had planned on leaving Custer for the next night, heading down to Hot Springs for the night in the KOA, but when BioMom re-read the email about the "kamp ground" which clarified the need to have 'brought your own sheets' we prolonged our stay at the lovely lodge in Custer, taking an entire day to play in the hills and explore Needles Highway, and Custer itself. It was a lovely break in the pace we had been setting, which, I realized, mirrored our own hectic life. We needed to slow down and smell the buffalo pies.

Sleep was much more comfortable, even in the bunk beds, and we woke to two happy siblings, enjoying a cup of milk and cartoons in an upper bunk together.



That afternoon we headed back north to Needles Highway. This is one of the parts of the vacation with Cousin and parents, taken thirty years ago that I remembered most vividly and so I drove slowly soaking it all in. Was I driving on the EXACT road that my parents took so many years earlier? How did they feel? What were they thinking? What were their plans for the day? It felt magical to me, as though I were somehow touching them, communicating with them and our lives together.

I remembered that at some point along the drive we had pulled over for a closer look. My parents were fairly cavalier about our safety and whereabouts (Cousin is seventh of seven and I am fourth of four, and seventeen years younger than the next oldest) so we entered into the needles themselves, climbing up, over, and around the narrow passages. At one point I remember feeling panicked. Where were we? And where was my mom? I could hear her whistling to us, seemingly close, but at the time I had no idea how to get back to her from inside the maze of rocks. We were lost.

Now, at thirty-eight, I wanted to find that place again.

We drove in and around, gasping at the scenery, when we went through another one lane tunnel. On the other side, many cars had gathered and we slowly drove past. Nothing looked familiar, so we drove on, but both BioMom and I had a gut feeling that that was the place to be, so we turned around, and headed back. No sooner were we out of the car, when we looked right and saw this:


And knew we had found Needles Mecca.

We looked left when Big shouted: There's a peep rock!!!

. . . His nickname for his penis.



It was the only time I was happy we have not followed the P.C. parenting trend and used nicknames for their genetailia.





We climbed and squeezed through the rocks and I got lost in my memories of Mom, Dad and Cousin in the Needles.

The Badlands Part Deux: BioMom Guest Posts!

I offer you, dear reader, the below guest post from BioMom. It marks the first real presence of her in this blog. I had originally intended her to be like Norm's wife in Cheers--there, but not really there--but I thought it'd be fun for you all to hear her perspective on our little family vacation.

Enjoy!

I guess we spoiled the kids. We didn’t really mean to. It’s just that the only vacations we have really taken as a family have been to the North Shore where we have rented beautiful homes through Cascade Vacation Rentals (check them out at cascadevacationrentals.com). You know what I mean… Open kitchens with granite countertops into great rooms with big fireplaces…Cute moose dishwear with matching knickknacks to boot. In fact, I am sitting here guest blogging on a newly constructed king suite in Custer State Park. Blogauthor and I are sitting on our king sized bed with its 400 plus threadcount sheets while the kids sleep comfortably in this air conditioned room. Each of us has a computer warming our laps with a gin and tonic (diet tonic) on our bedside table and a bag of Cheetos (baked) nestled between us…Now THIS is vacation.

So, I guess it is no surprise that our night in the Badlands was a bit of a bust. The brochure described the cabins as “quaint” which I actually really liked. I read lots of reviews from people that said it was perfectly located to view the spectacular scenery. Believe it or not, a lot of research that went into the selection of that lodging…Well our kids wouldn’t have it. Both of them complained in their own special way.

We arrived in time to attempt a nap with Big. Blogauthor was kind enough to take Eight to go climbing some Badlands hikes while I looked forward to a quiet afternoon of reading People and catching up on some email. Big would have nothing of it…He cried and screamed from the minute I put him in his pack-n-play. I tried more milk, more books, more snuggles…Nothing worked. Until, after a half-hour struggle, he hoisted himself out of the portable crib and walked into my room stating “I got me out”. The next three hours of waiting for the girls to return consisted of me chasing Big around the small cabin circle on his Skuut and climbing all over the housekeeping golf cart pretending he was a police officer saving me or taking me to jail. It was actually very fun but interminable.



When Blogauthor and Eight finally returned from their escapade, we ate dinner and then moved onto bedtime. Our rigidity around bedtime ended up backfiring as the kids were not very comfortable in our “rustic” cabin (which still had the last tenants coffee in the coffee pot and dirty cups on the window ledge when we arrived).We decided Eight should sleep in a separate room because she wakes up so incredibly early. Needless to say, she wasn’t having it… She was allegedly terrified of the rattlesnakes and sobbed for hours while we became more and more frustrated, neither of us having had a break from childcare for the past 24 hours. As you can imagine, being at work most of the time, I am simply not used to this 24/7 parenting…Man, is it exhausting. Anyway, we all finally collapsed into sleep by midnight and slept a good 8 hours.

We woke up, packed our stuff and got the H. E. Double-toothpicks out of the Badlands, and I had never left our quaint little accommodations

The entire time we were there, Eight kept asking why it was called the Badlands. I kept my reasoning to myself.