Vacation?

So what is the definition of vacation, anyway? I guess the definition depends on whether you're an adult or a child.

Our family likes to "vacation" at Pismo. It is a six-hour drive.

It takes a week to get ready for vacation. All five members of our family have to be packed up. Many of us wear more than two outfits a day either because they are messy eaters, vain teen
or sweaty husband.

Saturday morning arrives. Time to go bright and early. We get the kids in the car and go. For the first half-hour the novelty of leaving the house brings silence from the little ones. This is when husband and I get to talk. This is our last chance to have a conversation until we go on vacation next year.

Soon we replace the adult music with "baby songs." The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, blah blah blah... Of course, Princess J. is bitching. "Why do we have to listen to this crappy music all the time?"

We get about two hours down the road and it is "pit stop" time. I inform my husband we need to get out at the next rest stop. It is usually the next exit, in which case we miss it, or it is 30 miles down the road.

Ah the "rest" stop. The little guy wants to stretch his legs. I chase him around desperately hoping that today isn't the day that B.J., the crank snorting trucker, goes on his crime spree. We all have to use the bathroom. By the smell, at least eight or ten people have pissed on the floor. How hard is it to get the urine in the hole? These people that can't get urine in the hole are raising children JUST LIKE THEM. It's like passing the torch. "C'mere Jr., I'll show you how it's done."

You can pee in there without sitting on the seat, but your shoes are still sticking to the floor and they will be on the floor of your vehicle very soon.

Of course, there are vending machines. A., our future telemarketer, wants three items. We bargain her down to one. It is like dealing with the rug salesman at the flea market. You might get him down to your price, but you feel like an ice pick is lodged in your head by the time you're done.

Back in the van. The toddler shrieks and arches his back. Princess J. is fighting with A. Never mind that there is almost a nine year age difference. This is when I begin wishing for shock collars. "Mom, she said...ZZZZZTTTTT!

Back on the road - oh goody.

The toddler finally finishes screaming. It is almost lunchtime. We decide to get some drive-thru , artery clogging burgers. Princess J wants the most expensive item on the menu. Hubby wants two filet-o-fish and supersized fries. A. wants a crappy meal so she can have the crummy toy. I want some Vicodan. The toddler, the smartest one of all, doesn't want anything to do with that crap food and will proceed to grind it into his car seat.

Down the road we fly, hubby cussin' and dodging the morons who want to tailgate us at eighty miles per hour. Music blaring, kids screaming, me thinking, "Are we there yet?"

Lather, rinse, repeat.

We are in the last half hour stretch. The toddler has given up yelling. His eyes have a glazed look and he's drooling slightly. A hasn't shut up yet. J is still complaining.

We're there. Hubby checks us in. A is yelling to go with him but she can't find her damn shoes. They're buried under the toys and fast food wrappers. J is yelling at A. I gotta pee.

Once we are in the room everyone picks their beds. Some want a bed close to the balcony. (husband and J.) Some want a bed close to the bathroom. (me) And some want a bed wherever it will make J yell the most. (yep, that's A.)

At least one person has had to poop for the past hour. They go stink up the bathroom for the rest of us.

We're here finally. I sit down. Five minutes pass. Then I hear, "I'm bored. I wanna go to the beach."

TO BE CONTINUED...