Wherever you are: Enjoy!

I spent nine days in Cape Cod with the kids. We shared a four-bedroom single family home on a quiet gravel road near a lakefront beach. By the second night the kids had all moved into one bedroom because they didn't want to miss out on any fun. I took the kids everywhere; to look out points, marinas, cranberry bogs, beaches, grocery stores, all without hesitation because I knew I could park again when I got home. I washed sandy swimsuits and towels every single day in the washing machine. I laid in the grass and was nurtured. I sent the younger ones out to play while the older ones were doing academic work. It was so close to heaven. We didn't have so many obligations. We didn't have so many toys or books.

Focus makes life feel more abundant

It was like living in slow motion with time to savor each thing: trees, grass, playing baseball with Torpedo, Sparkle creating worlds in the mud out of pebbles and bottle caps. It was such a happy time. My heart feels good for everyone who gets to have that suburban experience, especially the ones who realize what a treasure it is. So many people have that every day and constantly complain about not having enough.

I’m happy where we are. My family is my Happy. New York is an amazing place to live. I'm just saying, wherever you are...Enjoy! :)

Story Problem

“Can we listen to Hannah Montana?” Already, I was dubious about the wisdom of this endeavor. One pregnant woman on a 30 hour road trip from New York City to St. Simons, Georgia, minus one busy husband, plus four children under ten stuffed shoulder to shoulder in a minivan; great idea or hormonally induced catastrophe?! I had avoided traveling alone with kids since a blizzard stranded me as the sole pair of arms to bear the baggage, car seats and collective tears of three small girls watching an empty luggage carousel make its pointless midnight rounds. Though my devoted husband, My Hero, wasn’t available for this new adventure, we had places to go; life to live! Besides, there are no blizzards in September. True, we had added a fourth child (a boy!) in the intervening years and I was well along in a new pregnancy. Still, I only planned to fill the van for one day each way. I would deposit Star, my type-A firstborn, and Angelfish, my wanderer, with their aunt in Maryland while I continued to Georgia with the clingy younger children, Sparkle and Torpedo. Once in Georgia they would be completely absorbed into the same-age children of my hosting friend. Essentially, it would be a kid-free vacation.

This paradisiacal plan sprouted from an humble intent to tour the White House. My Maryland sister had importuned her congressman and six short months later our extended family had been granted access. New York to D.C. had been the impetus upon which our “side trip” to Georgia embellished. This was also supposed to be the easy part of the journey. But the distance between point A and point B now stretched into a sharp, eternal ray. Near stand-still city traffic meant hours in the car, guzzling our allotment of bottled water, covering very little distance. Even with the aforementioned pop diva, once all that water raced through their little systems the typical whines took on a fevered urgency. Only ten miles outside of the city, I informed my belligerent brood that we could not possibly stop this close to home. Star voiced the growing consensus, “Mom, we’re hungry and we have to go!” Maybe the diaper days weren’t so bad after all. I envisioned unbuckling, entering, sticky fast-food fingers, tense whiny exits, and buckling four sweaty bodies back into the same seats now dusted in pretzel crumbs, all deviations from my plan. My shoulders dropped in defeat and I mildly resented the universal release of tension from my triumphant mutineers as we rounded the next exit.

My boy set a New Jersey Turnpike record for the most items attacked by a single toddler at a single rest stop. I grimaced and supported my pregnant belly with one hand while sprinting past indecisive travelers, blankly thumbing artless postcards, to save the Sunglass Hut from Torpedo's disastrous touch. I did not get there first. Star did. Her steady hand deftly caught his chubby wrists before he even grazed the expensive eyewear. Where did she come from? Still in the astonished moment, I spun chasing Torpedo with my eyes. He was headed for the arcade, but Star and Angelfish were racing after him unasked and with surprising success. His small stature enabled him to dart through travelers, but he couldn’t shake them. My husband calls the addition of each new child a “promotion” to which I respond by rolling my eyes, but maybe he had a point after all. I couldn’t safeguard four children at a busy rest stop by myself, but maybe I could delegate. I had to delegate. Angelfish supervised Sparkle at the food court table. Star shadowed our two-year-old Tasmanian. I shouted directions from my position in a slow line for fast food. A well timed rest stop always lightens the mood. For me it was something more, more than a high fructose corn syrup haze. It was the revelation that I could count on my children for meaningful help. We were becoming a team.

Traveling hours are like dog years, especially when listening to “tween” music. I snuck in a few lectures regarding lyrical subtext, but I also memorized many of their favorite songs as we perfected our stereo time-share. Confession: I actually liked most of it. Star's shot-gun seat gave her the most freedom of movement for car dancing, but Angelfish shook her abundant copper hair to great effect. Miraculously, Torpedo slept soundly despite Sparkle “dancing” in the back of his chair. My short legs didn’t allow much room between my belly and the steering wheel, but I caught some of their standout moves in the rearview mirror. Their car dancing choreography all seemed to fit together coglike until it suddenly didn’t. We were only 90 minutes from our nighttime destination when Armageddon rumbled behind me. “She’s leaning on me!” Push. “Well, she hit me!” Glare. “We already listened to her song five times.” Smirk. Shove. “WuuuaaaahhhHHH.” Torpedo wasn’t sleeping anymore. No debates. We veered onto the exit ramp for another micro-managed rest stop. Well past bedtime I finally pushed in the parking brake at Grandma’s house. We could boast an enviable collection of free local maps from the last rest stop, but that would have to wait till morning. We quietly sank into the deep slumber of those who sit too long and stretch too little.

We had two excursions planned for our time in D.C. The White House tour was obviously the jewel at the center of this chain of events. But first we squeezed in a big kids visit to Mount Vernon while Grandma babysat. We had annual membership passes and a systematic approach. We had already viewed the welcome center, the main house, the herb gardens and slave quarters on previous visits. We determined that an indoor expedition would be wise as the mercury was pushing 100. So we kept a steady, if somewhat limp, march over the few hundred sweltering yards to the education center. Beads of sweat were already forming on Angelfish's brow and Star's cheeks were pink with the heat. We had nearly reached our turn off when a free shuttle bus parked at the stop immediately in front of us. Maybe Torpedo's absence made me adventurous. One glance toward my matted girls raised the question. Our deliberate plan included air conditioning and educational opportunities, but this bus shuttled to a boat waiting on the Potomac River only a mile or so away. They resisted. “We need air conditioning.” Nevertheless, they loyally followed me through the open doors where we joined several elderly women in pastel pant suits and name-tags. I smiled, “Hey! The bus has A/C.”

The half-sized bland colored bus bumped along steep forest trails like some ancient roller-coaster ride. We braced ourselves. More than once, I expected to hit a tree. How many pacemakers had been activated on this pilgrimage? We lived to behold to the lazy Potomac river. Other sweaty tourists who had survived the shuttle bus sat under a pavilion fanning themselves with glossy brochures awaiting the next boat. Dust from the departing shuttle bus had settled before we realized that no boat rides were included in our membership. Bummer. We instinctively felt the miles separating us from the air conditioning so precious in southern climates. The unusually calm river did nothing to abate the humidity and supported an abundant mosquito population. I had gambled and lost.

Trudging up the return path, we discovered a four-acre living museum plantation on our left. We hadn’t seen it in shuttle bus blur and I had never heard of it. No other tourists were there. In fact, it almost seemed we had stepped through a time warp to find farmers planting cabbage, touching tobacco plants and carding cotton. An encouraging breeze picked up and carried the cool of the river just across our cheeks and shoulders. My delighted daughters spent the next two hours receiving private training in the horticulture techniques of the 18th century. Watching Angelfish converse with an elderly farmer and plant cabbages in the dust, dripping in costume jewelry rhinestones and sweat, it struck me that my children were between times. They were between fashionista and farmer, between city and country, but also between childhood and the adult world. They were between following and leading. I realized that ‘between’ was a wide open space full of surprising opportunities.

Emboldened by our Mt. Vernon successes, I felt ready for the White House. My childhood dream was coming true. Background checks and security measures which stripped us of water bottles and cell phones only added to the prestige. We were prompted at every turn of our self-guided tour not to sit, not to touch, and not to breathe too freely in the historic halls. My children complied. They didn’t sit on or touch anything. In fact, I had to catch my breath just to keep up with them. They raced past photographs. They barely registered paintings, décor or the craftsmanship of custom cast doorknobs, molding, fire places, etc. They whizzed through so quickly that I wasn’t sure if they’d seen more than an historical blur which probably looked much like any other blur. After the fact, they did recall “sparkly chandeliers” as the standout feature of the famous building. This 25 minute jog through the big white house with “sparkly chandeliers” had been the premise for my entire adventure. I was flabbergasted.

Nevertheless, a pattern for success began to emerge: if the kids were willing to try new things and I was willing to be flexible we all had fun. I enjoyed being with my children. They enjoyed being with each other. They enjoyed being with me. In this miraculous moment I did not want to leave them behind. Given the choice, I wanted to spend 20 more hours crammed in the car and two more days unbuckling, buckling and spreading Georgian sand everywhere with my children. I invited Star and Angelfish to join us. They weren’t impressed by my palm tree appeal, but to my amazement, their proclivity for sleeping in won them over. Evidently, waking up for the seminary class Auntie was teaching that week was less desirable than squishing in the mini-van for 20 hours where you can, after all, sleep.

On departure morning there was little eagerness. Fearing mal de mer, Angelfish nearly escaped without eating breakfast. Sparkle couldn’t find her shoes because she wouldn’t look for them. And Torpedo arched his back in opposition to the car seat. Only my ten year old gem, Star, sparkled with cooperation. Of course, she was riding shotgun and felt the pleasure of her new privileges and responsibilities; not the least of which was controlling the radio. Before the first CD ended, Angelfish did lose her breakfast in the backseat. Armed with a container of wet wipes, Star bravely released her seatbelt and shimmied into the backseat to minister to her suffering sister. With all of the windows opened, our noses eventually adapted to the offense. I empathized with Star. Responsibility was sometimes overrated. Only nine driving hours left for the day.

As we trekked further south of the Mason-Dixon line an odd pattern emerged. We had to make multiple stops for every break. One stop would provide public lavatories, grassy spaces, picnic tables and huge civil war plaques; another stop to fuel the car and a third stop for food. That meant fumbling with seatbelts at least 20 times and finding eight pairs of shoes. Growl. They were clean and well stocked, but in a region famous for its hospitality, the rest stops were unexpectedly inconvenient. Star chased squealing Torpedo in a game called “Don’t die in the parking lot.” Luckily, she was mostly winning because I was too tired to play. I merely watched from the little nest my crossed arms made for my head on a rough hewn picnic table. Angelfish and Sparkle entertained themselves by balancing on the raised gardens ledges around civil war plaques. They found fun at a rest stop with nothing more than a public lavatory, historical plaques and some picnic tables. Surely I could pick myself up by my sandal straps and exhibit a little enthusiasm as well. I corralled my sticky, smiling family around a huge sign boldly declaring “Georgia” and took a picture to prove to my children, lest any of us forget, that I did take them somewhere…once.

Then, I almost took them nowhere. We arrived on St. Simons island after dark. Even a small island can hold infinite wrong turns. Star instinctively understood “Are we lost?” was taboo and transmitted the message to the backseaters who stopped rumbling about the lack of travel tunes, food, space, light, etc. She shifted calmly into navigator mode and maintained constant cell phone communication with my girlfriend as I repeatedly traversed the same few blocks in the last uncertain minutes of our drive. Thanks to her, we finally parked in front of the correct house and stumbled onto the spongy southern grass. “You made it!” my friend cheered. “What’s that smell?”

We had a singularly happy time with our friends against the gorgeous and varied setting of St. Simons, Georgia. Serendipity netted us 19 live sand dollars, an amazing chocolate bread pudding and countless tender memories. Our return trip was smooth. We functioned in concert; little cogs fitted tightly together in a watch. If the cogs were separate, they wouldn’t bump into each other, but the watch would stop. We bumped into each other constantly, but we could soften the blow by working in rhythm and responding to each other’s needs. Yes, we made more unplanned rest stops. We bought greasy, sticky food to make our blood sugar soar. We buckled on shoes and seatbelts ad naseum. We got lost again. And we may never get all the crumbs from the secret crevices all minivans hide, but we will never forget our journey. Based on this proof, my hopeful hypothesis is that the odd family in this story problem can continue at the speed of happiness from point A forever.

Slam edition-Des Moines

After Las Vegas we routed through Denver to see family which is always a good time.  Denver marked the end of the vacation portion of our travels.  We had to get down to business, log miles and haul it home.  We hit Des Moines right on schedule, but then we hit a deer!  That was not on our schedule.  

We saw two deer dart into the two lane interstate.  I looked at the speedometer and noted that My Hero was able to slow 10 mph to 60 before we collided with one of the deer.  He didn't swerve, just came to a stop.  I remember saying, "You did a good job.  You did the right thing."  This was later verified by Geico and Iowans alike.  Swerving usually exacerbates the problem.  We were unscathed, but shaken.  The kids were especially scared and we wouldn't let them get out of the car.  There was glass everywhere, but we showed them the pictures that we took.  Four cars (including one Semi) pulled over behind us and they say the deer flew 40 feet in the air before landing beside the road.  The deer did not fare so well.  We used our magic phones to call our insurance company.  Meanwhile a police officer pulled over, walked up to my window and said, "Welcome to Iowa."  He got an accident report for us pronto.  

Then we used our magic phones to google for repair shops near Des Moines (at this point I'll stop being shy about it; I'm completely in love with my iPhone) and there weren't so many shops open after noon on a Saturday, but we found one only 30 miles backwards.  The engine was fine, so I put on some ski goggles to protect myself from flying shards of glass and held a map over the windshield hole with my feet.  My Hero took it nice and easy.  After we settled into the waiting room at the repair shop, I started to get the shakes and tears.  People started telling us stories of untimely death and destruction in similar scenarios.  The inside of our car looked as if it had been sprinkled with pixie-dust, there was so much glass, but no one had been cut.  Finally, the air bags did not deploy.  For short people like me, that can often cause the most damage so I thought that was a miracle, too.  It was basically a three hour delay in our journey and some hotel juggling to get us on track again.  I'm feeling tender about life.

 

We didn't see the deer as we passed the collision spot.  We have two theories.  1.  The deer was merely stunned and eventually scrambled to it's feet and continued on it's way as well.  2.  There is a list in Iowa for people who want to haul away fresh road kill as cheap, delicious wild game (this part is not theory), so we think somebody took the deer home for dinner.  Maybe someone from the list or maybe one of the four cars that pulled over to make sure we were okay.

Hug somebody

Springtime in Zion

Six days prior to these shots, we were skiing at Sundance!  It's a little trippy to travel through seasons so quickly.  I've never seen anything like Zion National park or the Virgin River Gorge (on our way to Vegas).  

From NYC to Des Moines

First of all I should tell you why we went. We went because BYU is doing a production/film of a show my dad wrote about the Berlin Airlift. So anyway... We started driving from our apartment at about 10:00 AM on Feb. 16th. We drove for about 4-5 hours and then stopped for lunch. The first day was pretty uneventful; no one threw up and we only watched one movie.




Finally, at around 8:30 we got to the hotel which was very nice. We got settled in and then we went swimming for approximately 75 min. Then we ordered our food which took over an hour to get to us. Finally the cold food got to the hotel and My Hero paid the delivery boy a smaller tip because he was so late. Then we went to bed.

To the surprise of us kids, my parents announced that we were going to attend a sacrament meeting 5 min. away. We weren't planning on going to church therefore we didn't have any Sunday clothes that weren't packed on the top of our car in plastic bags. I tried to convince them that we shouldn't go as it would be so humiliating to be mistaken as a convert in blue jeans. But we went anyway. I enjoyed the meeting but was still slightly embarrassed at our apparel. Eventually we got on the road and had a pretty boring drive until we were about 100 miles left for the day.

We had hit a terrible storm, it took us like 3 hours longer to get to the hotel than we had planned. And on that 100 mile stretch we counted 130 cars off road, which included 6 or 7 tractor trailers. It was so scary. We were going about 40 mile's an hour and were scared out of our wits. At number 70 of our counting cars deal, My Hero, who was driving, said something like, "Look, counting these cars isn't helping me. You can count them in your head but I don't want to know." At the next road stop, we said a prayer asking if we should continue on or just stay at a close cheap hotel. We decided to keep going but come off at the closest exit with an hotel if it started snowing. We all agreed to the terms and continued on. After we got back on the road, the road conditions improved immensely. Finally, we got to the hotel and went pretty much straight to bed. We were exhausted.

posted by Star
Mom says: We learned about the Delaware Indians and why most barns are painted red.