SRMM's Excellent Adventure: 1,600 Miles

We made it to Pennsylvania. I have to say, the kids were great for (almost) the entire trip. It turns out Little Dude can tolerate exactly four days, 5 hours, and 40 minutes of togetherness. Any more than that and he starts screaming, “Get out! Get out! I have to get out of this car now!”

I don't think that's his Asperger Syndrome talking, because those were my sentiments exactly.

For lunch yesterday we stopped at yet another Chick-fil-A somewhere in Virginia. (I know, I’m a glutton for crispy chicken punishment.) Incidentally, the Young Carnivores were so sick of fast food at this point that they asked for grilled chicken, fruit, and milk.  ("Please, mommy, no more french fries.")

While we ate lunch, we couldn’t help but overhear the family in the booth behind us. I say “couldn’t help but overhear” because when someone is right behind your head growling “chew it! chew it!” in a menacing voice, it’s both noticeable and freaky. The dad was berating his toddler for not eating enough, and then criticizing his wife for letting the child have some fruit or something before he had finished the chicken.

I bet Sunday dinners at their house are a blast.  I'm sure it's a regular Norman Rockwell event.  Except instead of sitting around beaming at Grandma's turkey, Johnny's under the table crying, and Susie's in the bathroom making herself throw up.  You just can't see them in the painting.

Of course, after we ate, we had to hit the play area. Shortly after we entered, the mom came in with her toddler. This is the point where I realize that the mom is at least eight months’ pregnant (like a turkey timer, her belly button had already popped). When her little boy got stuck in the play area tunnel, she climbed into the tunnel, belly and all, to help her son, while her husband watched through the glass, sipping his lemonade. (I sent Cookie and the Pork Lo Maniac into the tunnel to relieve the poor woman.)

What was wrong with this dad? Does he think that climbing into a convoluted Habitrail is “woman’s work?” You know what’s woman’s work, dude? Creating freaking life. And she’s kinda busy with that right now. And maybe being hunched up in a black-and-white cow-spotted plastic tunnel isn’t the ergonomically correct position in which to be most productive. So maybe you could put down your lemonade and man up.

And now I have to add yet another rule to my Chick-fil-A rules.

Dads: If your wife is pregnant, you should take your kids out to Chick-fil-A and let your wife nap at home on the sofa. And then bring her home some chicken and a milkshake. If she is craving crispy chicken so much that she chooses to come with you, then for God's sake you climb through the freaking Habitrail after little Tyler.

As a side note, I should have let my kids play longer in the play area.  Being confined in a car for hours on end does not exactly get them tuckered out.  It took forevah to get the girls to bed.  At 11:30 last night, Little Dude was still awake, drawing pictures of Star Wars guys.  I think he was so overloaded on sensory stimulation that he needed some quiet time without his sisters.  My awesome friend Meredith listened to him explain a complicated scene involving Jango Fett and Obi Wan Kenobi while I began washing five days' worth of laundry.  He didn't go to sleep until midnight.

And yes, that was with a Benadryl.