Currently we are on vacation. This means we are spending long hours in the car, being irritated with each other, versus long hours in our air-conditioned home, where, when we are irritated, we can go into separate rooms and scream or cry in peace without the other person being less than a foot away.
“We” no longer includes just Marti and myself. It also includes Ben, and, more recently, Maya. Now, you may be thinking, “How can Maya be irritated? She’s still learning the difficult art of getting her fist into her mouth.” But yes, Maya has needs and opinions, and, in her opinion, she does not like long hours in the car, despite giant butterflies, rattles, singing aquariums and other baby bling purchased expressly to irritate her while she’s trying to have a good, strong cry in a small space. She has very good lungs, and she plays them at full volume. It’s sort of like an AC/DC concert in a very small space, except that the sound doesn’t vary much. Okay, it’s very like an AC/DC concert in a very small space.
We left bright and early Saturday morning to drive to L.A. to visit our cousins (yes, we warned them). I had the brilliant idea that we should get up super early so the kids would sleep the first few hours. We aimed for 3 a.m. but woke up at 4 a.m. and left by 5:30 a.m. The kids slept faithfully until we actually placed them in the car. Then they woke up and were tired and grouchy. Ben couldn’t understand why we kept not arriving at Uncle Rene’s house. Does daddy know where he’s going? We’re going to Uncle Rene’s house, right? So why aren’t we there? Are we still going to Uncle Rene’s? Does he need to look at the map, because daddy doesn’t look confident that he knows where he’s going. And that was just the first 30 minutes.
It took eleven hours to make the 8-hour trip to L.A. Luckily, most people were trying to get out of L.A. for the holiday weekend, so we chuckled merrily at the long lines of traffic going the other direction. Suckers. Who doesn’t want to spend their 4th of July weekend in the beautiful city of Los Angeles?
We stopped at a rest stop about 4 hours into the trip, primarily because Maya wouldn’t stop crying. This was because we were clearly torturing her by being nearby and yet not holding and admiring her, or at least slipping her some nourishment, such as breast milk. It was also because she had pooped about half her bodyweight all over herself, her onesie and her carseat. She also got a little on her diaper, mainly to make us feel better for making the effort of putting it on her.
As we pulled into the rest stop, I looked over and saw a familiar sight: a long line of women waiting outside the women’s bathroom, except that this time it was in the middle of the desert. Ignoring the line, I pushed my way into the bathroom, holding a dripping, poopy Maya in front of me. The line parted like the Red Sea. After I changed Maya on the countertop, I briefly considered bolting into one of the stalls to pee really quick, but I was afraid the other women would stampede and crush the life out of me if I cut in front of them like that. So, I meekly went out, gave Maya to Marti, and walked into the men’s bathroom, which of course had no line. I mean, what else is my women’s studies concentration good for if I can’t even pee in peace? The men in the bathroom stared at my breasts. I’m not sure if that was because they were surprised a woman was in there, or because I’m a D-cup, or because I have breasts, period.
Just for the record, I did not use the urinals. There are limits, even to women’s lib.
Regardless, we did arrive safely in Los Angeles and had a lovely time at Marti’s cousins’ house. Maya and I fell asleep in a hammock chair in the back (she seemed glad that I finally figured out that she needs to sleep with me at all times, preferably with a breast actually in her mouth in case she should fancy a drink. Silly parents, needing her to cry two solid hours in the car in order to figure it out). The next day we drove to the beach, and Maya declared that she does not like cold ocean water. Ben of course collected lots and lots of shells, preferring the old, polished bits of shell over new intact shells, which sometimes had disturbing things attached, like seaweed. Or sand. Heaven forbid.
We all got covered with sand and a tiny bit sunburned in spots where the sunscreen didn’t get rubbed in, and we drove back to Rene’s happy and tired.
It was nice, though. Just like a vacation.
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