Note to self: chocolate vomit is abhorrent and foul, brown like poop, dark and frightening. When issued by Nick onto tan shag, it looks like diarrhea swirl.

On the up side, it doesn’t smell that bad. After initial failures in cleaning efforts, the big boy Bissell did a full clean up number on the Vomit Zone. In fact, it’s probably the cleanest spot in the house right now.

Yesterday the kids decided to built a fort. I knew this would be so when Nick approached me in a bustling, fussy mood, one hand on his hip and the other raised in a didactic wave. “Mommy. We need sheets.”

Who am I to say no? I gave him sheets. He and Jesse built a fort that took over half the living room and used all our small furniture and chairs as vertical structural elements. They completed it while Anthony and I were out on a date night enjoying the totally mediocre movie, Lucy. They filled the space in the fort with books, supplies, and stuff; and apparently if there was anything that didn’t fit, they threw it on the floor in the other half of the living room.

All that stuff on the floor, that’s toy vomit. Anthony and I cleaned up the visible vomit, of course. We left the fort because, you know, fort.

For most of today I didn’t take any notice of the living room.  I was busy with making breakfast, doing laundry, getting the ribs in the oven, going to the water park with the family and, while Anthony took the kids to a movie at the theater, shopping at REI and Whole Foods. Then I finished dinner — the ribs, fresh cole slaw, salad, and garlic bread. Not bad.

After cleaning up and all that, I wandered into the living room and saw…

Three cuties staring, unblinking, at three electronic devices. A common sight these days.

The fort, or perhaps more accurately, a shroud masquerading as a fort.  Still there next to the catatonic cuties, but abandoned.

A dead orange dragon, cause of death not obvious. Is the green flannel sheet wadded up near its butt supposed to be dragon poop?

These little creatures, all alone next to the hearth. I don’t know what they are. Some sort of lizard?

This motley (but carefully placed) array of figurines. I’m not sure why the dragons and sea monsters were hanging out with the rescue heroes. Only Nick knows the answer.

Notably, the three larger human figurines on the sofa never moved while I shuffled about taking these photos, nor even looked up at me.

Toy vomit, all.

One of the perks of being on a traveling vacation is that I get to watch normal TV when we stay at hotels. At home we have the Roku thingy and stream shows on demand. We also have a digital antennae thingy so we can watch network stuff, but I almost never do. I hate ads and I don’t have a life that allows much of anything to happen on someone else’s schedule. I learn about world events in quick bursts of time on the web, relying on my go-to news trio — NY Times, Facebook and the Onion.

Needless to say (but I will anyway), I’m culturally out of touch. Once in a while it bothers me so I read People or Us, or I browse Yahoo, and I marvel for a few moments at the world of Celebrity swirling around my void.

This morning I turned on the TV in our hotel room and Today was on. It’s one of those morning network talk shows. But you probably already know that. It was superficial, jangly and jarring, with bright colors and smiling faces, except when they put on their serious faces. It made me feel anxious and vapid.

As I pottered about, I learned from Today that the POTUS had a state dinner for kids who submitted recipes. The Dutch are angry about how their compatriots’ remains are being handled in the Ukraine. There is weather all over the country. A ball girl at a Sox game snagged a fair ball. Kate Hudson has a new movie out.

We didn’t recognize Kate. With her extreme-straightened hair and extreme-smoothed forehead and extreme-coverage makeup, she looked just like everyone else I see in the mags now. Anthony commented dryly, “She’s done something to her face.” We speculated about Botox.

As I hustled Nick out the door for a delicious continental breakfast in the hotel lobby, Today posted up a snapshot of some people with this caption underneath: “Adam Levine weds model in Mexico.”

Oddly enough, I know who Levine is and I know that he was dating a Victoria’s Secrets model. I know she hawks panties and bras and sells her made-up face and primped body for pictures. Still, the caption bothered me. Some Today execs or writers sat around deciding on what to say. They chose not to use the bride’s name or a word that ordinarily describes a human being in a relationship. They could have referred to her as a partner, girlfriend, fiancé, lover, friend. Instead the caption objectifies her utterly, completely. She could be a person or a train set or a blow-up doll. I wondered if she’s okay with being pegged that way.

And this is one reason why we got rid of normal TV. Why should I be wasting my time worrying after the feelings of Adam Levine’s model? Yeesh. It’s a good thing we’re heading to the mountains for a few more days of camping. Continue reading →

We just left a week of decadence in Corolla, North Carolina, on the Outer Banks. We stayed in a beach house populated by 30 people, 24 cell phones, 15 televisions, 12 iPads or similar devices, 18 DVD players, 9 laptops, 8 electric and acoustic guitars, 48 board games, 2 hot tubs, 3 tons of stray sand, and 300 empty beer bottles and cans. I was so busy having fun and being grumpy in turn that I never bothered to write anything, so that story will have to wait for another day.

Right now we’re relaxing at a Holiday Inn Express in the Richmond, Virginia metro area. We get one easy night’s rest before we hit the Shenandoah mountains for 3 nights of camping.

It’s been so long since I’ve spent any time in the south. I got sucked into the arctic vortex of Wisconsin 8 years ago, and I forgot all about the delights of southern life. Friendly, warm people; more diversity; good food. We stopped by the Richmond Whole Foods and found amazing southern eats at the hot bar — several kinds of pulled meats and barbecue, amazing sauces, mac and cheese, and so on. I was really happy.

Then I got on the hotel elevator and saw this sign glaring at me.

I thought to myself, is this a joke? Is it some sort of post-modern, absurdist segregation? Is it a sardonic riff, a subtle mockery of the history of apartheid in the south?

(Hold on. Nick just told me he needs me to hang out with him while he poops. Excuse me while I go live the good life for a moment.)

Right. So while I wiped Nick’s little ass, my racing thoughts spun out of hand. Why do Coke people get the snacks and Pepsi people get the laundry? What was it about my family that made them place us on the Pepsi floor? Don’t we deserve snacks too? What happens if I vend a Coke and bring it to my room on the Pepsi floor? Will one of those completely insane Virginia highway patrol guys on a motorcycle come do horrible things to me and my kin?

I’ve been partying too much. I need more sleep.

We’re now in the first camping interlude of our vacation. We’re at the Assateague Island National Seashore. We drove from Big Grandma’s home and arrived in the early afternoon. It was scorching hot in the campgrounds. We pitched the tent, Nick got sunburned, Jesse had a tantrum, and we all got dehydrated. We went to the beach. It’s the kids’ first ocean experience. We warned them that it might first seem like Lake Michigan or Superior, but it’s not. Salt. Real waves. More tow. They came over the rise of the dunes and first remarked on how dark the water is. They got down to the water and exploded in excitement over the water’s energy. Nick spent an hour attacking the waves with imaginary weapons and declaring them vanquished whenever they failed to reach him. Jesse watched the surfers in jealous awe and made daddy take her into the rather tough, tow-bedeviled surf. It was great.

We got back to camp in the evening. It was cooler but rain threatened. We managed to get a fast dinner (hot dogs and a salad) and quick showers before the rain came. We all jumped in the tent and got snippy with each other as we tried to set the tent innards straight. Then there was a massive thunderstorm and a ton of rain. Jesse freaked out a bit but now everyone’s asleep. It’s still raining. The tent is sweltering hot because we had to close the fly for the rain. I can smell my feet. I have to pee. I don’t think there are enough Kegels in me to get me through the next 8 hours. Inside the tent is a desperate need to pee. Outside is rain and bugs. Lots of biting bugs.

I love camping.

I’ve been at my in-laws’ house since noon yesterday. 34 hours. 12 more hours to go.

Today is Nick’s birthday. He’s five. But yesterday was the day Anthony’s brother and family could come around, so we celebrated then, which mostly means I baked a cake and made frosting (can’t buy it because of Jesse’s egg allergy). There was a singing of happy birthday. Nick got a couple gifts – a little construction truck, a Spider-man figurine. A rubber water vest. He’s such a good little guy. He was totally satisfied by this modest hurrah to the day of his birth.

Nick’s never been to Big Grandma’s house, for reasons that can’t be discussed here. Yesterday was the first time he met Anthony’s brother and sister-in-law, and his nephew. His life hasn’t really encompassed this paternal cohort. I’m glad he got to meet them all, but I’m also a bit bummed out that we had to celebrate his birthday here.

I could whine about what a struggle it is for me to be here. I could make fun of myself, grumble about the stupid things getting under my skin. I could get bitter about the edges that won’t dull. I could express pride in myself for not doing anything that I’m angry with myself about — though I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve offended other members of Anthony’s family, as inevitably seems to be the case. I could make noise about why so many families waste energy blaming in-laws for dysfunctions that are obviously indigenous to the genetically-connected family.

But I shouldn’t do any of that on my son’s birthday. I know I know, I’ve passive-aggressively gone ahead and done it. Don’t be difficult and call me on it, dear reader. I’m trying to get through 12 more hours here.

Instead of moaning and groaning tonight, let me leave it at this: I have an awesome five-year-old son. He’s the sunshine to offset my daughter’s moonshine. He lifts my spirits again and again. He’s cheerful, kind, decent, inclusive. I watched him kiss his grandparents goodnight this evening, unbidden, so sweet and guileless and wise. He wants everyone to love everyone. I want to make his dreams come true. So I’ll keep working on it. Happy birthday, my beautiful Nicholas Lee.

We drove a few miles off course yesterday on our way to New Jersey, so that we could visit Oberlin College. I remember it as an idyllic little college in the middle of an idyllic little town, in the middle of a forty-mile-radius cornfield.

The campus has a lot of beautiful old stone buildings and beautiful grounds. But I remember a lot of dumpy flat fields too. They’re still there. They look just like I remember.

I also remember a kind of dumpy little town. Still dumpy in 2014.

We had this idea that the kids would enjoy seeing where their parents met. But Jesse got very upset when we said that THIS (wide sweep of arms encompassing entire campus and surrounding terrain) was where we met. “What does that MEAN???” She snarled. “People don’t meet all over the place! That doesn’t make ANY sense!! People can’t MEET for the first time in more than one place!!”

Uh, okay. So we walked over to Burton Hall, the dorm where we were housed our sophomore year. It was locked up, but we pointed out the windows of the specific room where we actually met for the first time. The building looked kind of dumpy. Jesse was underwhelmed. We made the kids pose for a shot next to the corner of Burton where our rooms were. They displayed their enthusiasm.

We drove past the house we shared senior year with a bunch of friends, in four separate apartments. We remember a lot of good times there. It’s a dump.

Nick pondered why we had brought him to this strange place, and why we seemed so happy to be here.

And I realized I don’t have an answer that’ll make much sense to a little kid. A great college experience is one of those definitional things, forming and informing a person’s beliefs and social values for the rest of her life. Plus I just had so much fun in my four years at Oberlin. And Anthony happened to me there. The seeds of our long journey together were planted in our imaginations in that beautiful, dumpy place.

Look! There we are, just a few paces from where we first laid eyes on each other almost 29 years ago.

Something’s changed… A few more pounds (okay, more than a few on me). Grays and wrinkles. And what’s that on my leg? Oh. Spawn. Who could have imagined? Not me while I was at Oberlin. But it was a school that taught us to re-imagine ourselves again and again while holding on to our moral centers. I hope I’ve done that.

I know the years have left me kind of dumpy, but I hope it’s the same kind of dumpiness that I saw at Oberlin – superficial, a mask over something more magical and robust. I was happy to introduce Oberlin to Jesse and Nick, even if they were bored and annoyed. I think someday they’ll pass through Oberlin — maybe even as students — and they’ll understand why Anthony and I were content after we wandered the streets of our alma mater.

I haven’t been alone for more than a few hours at a time since Jesse was born. I hate people too much to live like this. I’m falling apart. So, with the recommendation and support of my therapist, I’m about to enjoy a spectacular 3 weeks BY MYSELF. Anthony left this morning. He’s taking the kids on a 21-day road trip to the east coast. First they will stop by my in-laws’ home, FROM which I’ve been implicitly banished (they’re English, so nothing is plainly stated and everything is guesswork) or TO which I’ve refused to travel since a remarkable visit 5 years and 5 months ago. It all depends on one’s perspective. After the grandparental visit, my mate and spawn will continue down to the Outer Banks in the Carolinas for plenty of beach time, followed by driving and camping through the Shenandoahs and Ohio on their way home.

Meanwhile in Wisconsin, I will be enjoying my solitude in a blissful state of bliss. I plan to wake up and do this every morning: put the dog on a tether outside and leave her there until sunset, slip on my most comfie housecoat and hair rollers, and sit on the sofa with my feet up, staring at a wall, a stiff martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other. (Burp) I don’t even need the TV or any friends. I just want silence. Alone.

Wait. I think the hallucinogens I slipped in my coffee this morning are wearing off. What was I saying? Let me re-read that.

Right. Minor reality-based modification. I’m going on the vacation too. But I guess it could be worse.

(I’m trying to figure out how. Nothing so far.)

We have about 14 hours to drive to get to Anthony’s parents in New Jersey. Our children can’t do that in one day. They would go berserk and throw themselves out the car windows, if we don’t toss them first. So we’re taking two and a half days, which gives us ample time for park breaks and hotel pools. What a fun way to start a vacation. Sitting in a car. With two small children. For two and a half days. Until we get to my in-laws’ house. Yay.

We made it to Toledo, Ohio today, with about 7 hours in the car. Nick started out the day right by peppering me with incredibly addled questions about our trip, even though I believe our plan has been fully explained to him many times. Where are we going? How long will it take? Does three days mean we’ll get there yesterday? How will the fire start itself in the camp? Can I have my iPad now? Will there be Cheetos?

The first travel blip came when we made the mistake of stopping at a Starbucks, about half an hour into our drive. We needed caffeine for the seniors and smoothies for the juniors. I waited 10 minutes in line behind just 5 people, then another 20 minutes for the drinks. I’m not exaggerating. I don’t go to Starbucks often. Today I formed the distinct impression that Starbucks gives absolute imperial priority to drive-through customers, about 40 of whom ordered and were served after I ordered but before my drinks were made. Fortunately, the sting of this corporate policy wore off after I inhaled my mediocre nonfat grande ice latte.

We only got lost once on the drive, and only for a little while, somewhere in Indiana. Jesse had a panic attack and screamed at me after I missed an important exit. I didn’t think that was fair, because I think it was Anthony’s fault (he was navigating at the time), but I don’t remember clearly because Jesse’s screeching rattled me. Instead of dealing with relevant things, I got really grumpy and started nattering about how I was tired of everyone being grumpy except me, and I was DONE not being grumpy all by myself.

I thought I made a compelling point that called for immediate behavior modification, but instead my family just mocked me and then ignored me. So I made a sour face and pressed my lips thinly together in a way that surely made my profile more attractive to Anthony as we made random turns through northern Indiana, desperately trying to find route 80 again, this time in the correct direction.

After that, everything was fine. We got a room at a Holiday Inn Express in the greater Toledo metropolitan area, and Anthony took the kids to the pool while I ordered pizza. When I asked the pizza guy if there was any egg in the pizzas, he put me on hold to go ask the manager. A few long minutes later he came back to the phone.

“Okay. We don’t think there’s any egg in it.”

Jeez, I thought. In this setting, “think” is a euphemism for “maybe” and that isn’t good enough. We might not be able to get this pizza. I was just about to ask if they had an ingredient list, with a fatalistic expectation of food failure, but the telephone voice continued before I could speak. He sounded a little tentative, cautious.

“We make the crust here every morning. We use flour… Salt….Yeast and water… That’s all. So I think there’s no eggs.”

Ha! Happy mommy! I love it when cooks are overly careful. Jesse was thrilled too. Traveling can be hard for a kid with food allergies, and also for her parents. When the pizza arrived, Jesse ate it with gusto, until she was so full she felt sick. But sick in a good way, not in a get-the-epipen way.

Bottom line: day one of our vacation could in fact have been worse. The kids have grown up a lot since we went on our one-month camping trip last summer, and I thought they were remarkably easy to control today.

Tomorrow we’re going to pass near Oberlin College, where Anthony and I met. Thanks to our multi-day plan, we’ll have time to stop there even though we hadn’t originally planned to. We’ll show the kids where we met sophomore year, have lunch on Tappan square, pick up some Obie swag at the Benjamin Franklin store. We’ll tell stories about happy times (but not about naughty things we might have done). I think the kids will enjoy learning about the place where their parents fell in love.

Then again, they might just get bored. It’s a crap shoot with juvenile Homo sapiens.

One day down, 20 to go.

Nick raced to the bathroom this morning to pee and cheerfully went about his business. An hour later I walked into the same room to do my own business. There was a puddle next to the toilet, and also urine all over the toilet itself, and evidence of wall usage.

I couldn’t stop the words. I yelled out to the living room. “Oh MY GOD, Nick, there’s pee everywhere! Why did you pee everywhere?? WHAT DID YOU DO, USE IT LIKE A HOSE?”

The incessant noise of dragon battle cries in the living room suddenly ceased.

I yelled again into the silence, as I started pulling Clorox wipes and fussing about. “NICK. WHY DID YOU PEE EVERYWHERE. WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME.”

I know these are empty, rhetorical questions, but sometimes I just need answers, answers that don’t exist but NEED to exist, because there has to be an explanation for all this senseless PEE in my world, otherwise the meaning of things begins to unravel and I feel like my entire life has been wasted on nothing and I go blank all over (which is still better than screaming, but far worse than grumpy).

Nick must have sensed my mood, because he yelled back an answer for a change. “I was peeing and I was holding it but then I dropped it and it went DOWN, so then I picked it up and it went UP, and then I got it in the potty. SO THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED.”

It was well-articulated and truthful. What could I say. Thank you, my tiny spawn, for rescuing me from the existential void.

I made a delicious dinner for my family tonight, if I may make such a bold statement. Lemon pepper chicken with fresh sage.

Home-made buns.

Sautéed zucchini sprinkled with Parmesan.

And the awesomeness of farm-fresh bitter escarole braised in balsamic and cider vinegars with garlic, onions and grated carrots.

I am the BOMB. This isn’t even that abnormal. It took me about an hour (not including the bread, which was created earlier in the day), and by the time I was done Anthony was home and hanging out with the kids.

This picture was taken last week but is an exact replica of what was going down in the living room while I worked. Alone. In the kitchen. Creating a minor masterpiece. Like I frequently do.

When I was done, I set the table and then I had to walk the dog because Anthony is suffering from plantar fasciitis. Aaaw. I had this loose idea that the kids would eat dinner with Anthony and I would miss all that drama. But no.

Jesse wanted to ride her bike around the block with me. Okay, except for the infantile whining noises she was making about water on her shorts. Before I made it to our front lawn, Nick was in the doorway begging me to wait for him, because now he wanted to come on his bike too. I can’t do dog and beginner-bike Nick at the same time so I ignored him, but he ran out of the house barefoot, shoes in hand, wailing. “MOMMY WAIT FOR MEEEE!!!” Wisely sensing an emerging crisis, Anthony jumped into the fray as Jesse disappeared down the street. He instructed me to carry on and let him help Nick, so I marched off with the dog as Nick started keening. I made it 2 houses down before Nick hit the road. I looked back and saw him barreling down the street at me, crouched athletically over the bars of his tiny 12-inch-wheel Trek, spinning the pedals at an impossible rate, all the while bellowing and screeching through his raging tears, “MOOOMMMYYYY WAAAAAIIIIIT!!!! WAIT FOR MEEEEE!!”

It was cute but also an outrageous spectacle, and all I felt in that moment was a powerful instinct to flee. Run and hide, Carla, run and hide! I mustered my courage and stood my ground, and the five of us (Anthony came along too after all) had a reasonably pleasant and quick walk/ride.

On to dinner, which we settled down to as soon as we got back to the house. Anthony and I enjoyed the meal a great deal. Nick ate the inside of a bun and choked down 6 or 7 bites of chicken drenched in ketchup. I was thankful his gag reflex didn’t kick in, and also that he didn’t call any of my food “disgusting” or “nasty.” We didn’t bother to force vegetables on him. There had already been enough tears.

Jesse ate a couple bits of onion and she made a chicken sandwich on a bun, also covered in ketchup. She had wanted a hamburger but she was being flexible; she pounded the sandwich down. I was surprised by the speed of consumption. I asked her how it was with the chicken. “It’s great, mom!” Unable to help myself, I took the didactic next step. Always a mistake, but I never learn. I pointed out how glad I was that she was enjoying the chicken as much as a beef burger, because chicken is a healthier alternative to beef… Jesse interrupted. “Yeah, it’s good, Mom. Actually, I can’t even taste the chicken because of the ketchup, so it’s great.”

Always glad to serve my kids delicious, home-made meals, which they will appreciate when they reach their late 20’s.