North of Nowhere

Look on a map and find Nowhere. Then, drive north about 12 hours and that's where we went on family vacation this year. It seemed like a good idea...a little cabin in the woods by a lake in July when Washington is at its hot, sweaty best. My friend Mary and I colluded: get the kids and husbands north to the Adirondacks and relax. What could go wrong with that?

It would have helped if the term 'rustic' was defined in the brochure. As my husband said when we walked in, "if only the dog were slobbering on me - I’d feel right at home.”

Though Patrick thought he found Nirvana when he saw that bait, fireworks and liquor could all be purchased at the same store at the left where the road turns to gravel (That’s your marker if you ever want to find that store). I asked about leaving breadcrumbs, but was told I was being dramatic. I got carded at that store by a guy who was legally blind (as indicated by the outfit he was wearing). I kissed him anyway.

Anyway, this is where we spent $3,000 to drink Beergaritas and play cards in front of a fire while the kids alternately ate straight out of buckets of ice cream and poked at the worms they dug up for fishing. I am happy to report I rolled my seven-year-old for his allowance into 2019.

We, the adults, found the entire week wet, cold, dirty, flea infested, muddy and boring. The kids gave it five stars. Johnny said the bed was so comfortable he felt ‘hugged’ at night. I didn’t have the heart to explain that was because it was missing a box spring and the soft cushion over the bed frame was from the 1920’s and stuffed with hair, I think. Francis said he’d move here if they only had TV for rainy days.

The boys went tubing, hiking, biking, swimming, canoeing, kayaking, fishing and rolling in the mud – perfect American summer. I actually enjoyed the naps by the fire and certainly look forward to spending my card game winnings when we get back to ‘town.’ Patrick was proud he completely caught up on crossword, Sudoku and jig saw puzzles. No that’s something in this neck of the woods!

Staycation!

This summer we’ve spent a lot of time with rich friends, hence the Camelot song to the right. I think I’ve focused on this because it’s been like kosher salt in the old traveling wound. To wit: our family had originally decided in May that, with the economy and all, we would opt for a ‘staycation’ this summer versus anything more exotic or exciting. My funny friend Mary thinks ‘staycation’ more elegantly describes, “We sat next to the fan in the living room and watched re-runs of Full House.”

Our rich friends found the concept hilarious. They weren’t being mean. They graciously invited us to parties and weekends all summer long claiming there was no need for suffering with a staycation. They just couldn’t understand why we demurred. Reason 1: We felt a little uncomfortable mooching a place, the plane to get there and food and clothing for four. Reason 2: We didn’t see a moment in this lifetime when we could possibly reciprocate.

We know that our presence helps liven up the conversation. Not that my children, husband or I are stellar conversationalists……it’s more that we ask questions or just sit there in stunned silence giving the impression of finely tuned attentiveness to their stories. We are the audience for those who complain about their chef in the Hamptons (compared their chef at home). We map out the stops from the summer-long cruise on the private yacht. We take note of important information like: nannies are invaluable on shopping trips overseas. We just wish they’d drop some stock hints along the way.

We’re invaluable because we can’t really enter the conversation to say, “You know, we’d like to take a drive to Hershey Park for a day, but the ole vacuum needs replacing.” They spilled their Champaign on the pool deck when I piped up to tell them about my summer-long battle against BGE, our local shyster - I mean electric company. No air conditioning = reasonable bills we concluded after selling the family dog to pay the June bill. Our rich friends thought we were so inventive. Sad to say no creative thought went into that story.

Now that it is August, I can honestly say that our staycation has made us appreciate certain things: Like air conditioning in the hotel. On the bright side, we spent time with the family dog (got him out of hock), played in the creek out back, attended Fourth of July parades, cleaned out the basement, went to the library, had drinks on the deck under the stars (code for cooler) and visited friends who also had no air conditioning. We generally hung out at home and found free things to do in the area. Well, it wasn’t the islands, but if you’re interested - here are some pics from when we weren’t sitting next to the fan in the living room watching re-runs of Full House:
Seeing if Elsie will Eat Eggs and Pancakes (no)


With Girlfriend Keely in the Garden

Playing on the Back Deck with Friend Jack

Harry Potter Birthday Party at the Library with Friend Alexander

Riding the Wagon on the Hill


"Riding" (note quotes) Our Neighbor's Horses

Angel Sighting in France

A couple years ago during our first house exchange to the Languedoc-Roussillon region of France, we realized (albeit latently) that we were visiting during the hottest month in the hottest region during the hottest period of time in recorded history. The area is often called “the cauldron” to give you a feel for what I’m talking about. I’m clarifying that this was our first house exchange in the hopes you will take pity on us when I tell you this story. I’m not saying it was like we were pounding rocks in the Sahara Desert, but; considering the children’s complaint level, it was as if that were exactly the case.

My Yankee Problem Solving New England parents came the last week we were there and after seeing one day of the heat and the French ‘air conditioning’, they decided a nice long American road trip to the Alps was in order. I think we all had grand ideas of running in the cool breeze like Maria and the children did in ‘The Sound of Music’. Anyway, the general idea was that we would drive until it got cooler, then pull over and get a hotel for a couple nights. No problem, right?

Au Contraire.

Part of the problem is that even in a rental car you have to shut off the air conditioner to get the car up the hill, so it took us longer than expected to get to there. The other problem was that every other family with a car and two brain cells was doing the exact same thing. So, when we got to the most famous mountain region in the world, there was no hotel to be had. Sad to say I was surprised. Further up we were told about an annual music festival in July that sells out a year in advance. I was starting to get really nervous but, with a ‘stiff upper lip’ we carried on.

The man in the tourist booth at the next town was extraordinarily kind as he gently suggested we turn around and start back. He even took our cell number and said he’d check with hotels or off the road B&Bs in that direction (a huge thanks for the effort but we couldn’t get cell reception until we were 20 minutes from home). Exhausted and depleted, we ran around the center, listened to some bands warm up, got some dinner and climbed back in the car. Surely we would get a hotel along the way following our guidebook’s directions….

I’m sure you’re going to ask why I didn’t look this up on my wireless Internet and figure it out in advance. Let me jus say that now there are probably Internet café’s left and right of every little bistro in town but back ‘then’ (just five years ago) that wasn’t the case. We did have a laptop with us but couldn’t find a connection to hook up. Yes, the guidebooks were helpful in warning it was a ‘busy’ time of year, but we unfortunately didn’t give it a second thought because July is a busy vacation time everywhere (well, maybe not everywhere – but you get the idea). Our fault entirely, but I’m still complaining.

Of course there was no room at any Inn on the way back. Every mile we ticked back I mentally slapped myself in the face for my stupidity in leading our little group astray. Why didn’t I go to the cell phone store and get a better phone before I left? Why didn’t I go to a sister hotel in our town make a reservation? Why didn’t I heed the guidebook’s warning?! The kids nodded off along with my Mom. Dad tried to keep me awake talking about things like structural damage to bridges and cement fortifications of tunnels.

Around midnight we pulled over for gas and to our horror realized the station had switched over to credit cards only: French Gas Credit Cards to be exact. At that point, the lighting switched from ‘weak’ to ‘weaker’ (or what would qualify officially in America as ‘off). A small group of skinheads waiting for a bus decided they wanted to talk to us in slobbering German. There was no one else about for miles. We hopped back in the car and locked the doors.

Now I am not lying, exaggerating or recapping a made for TV movie about what happened next: a gorgeous man drove off the empty highway and guided his motorcycle over to the window of our car. He took off his helmet, his brown locks flowing in the night air (really, I’m not kidding) and asked us in French, then Italian, then English if he could be of assistance.

After our summary, he hopped off the bike and chased off the skinheads with a wood stick he had on his bicycle key chain. Then, he filled up the tank with his Official French Gas Credit Card and only took half of the money my Dad handed him (we stuck the rest in his side pack on his bike when he wasn’t looking). Then our hero dialed a ‘friend’ at a hotel in town a few miles away and ‘voila’ all was corrected.

My Dad and I stood there, mouths agape. The kids blessedly snored throughout the event. As our guy handed us a hand written map to the hotel that had our reservation, I finally found my voice and asked, ’What is your name? How can we possibly thank you?’

He slipped on his helmet and started revving the engine ‘It was nothing’ he said in typical low key French, lifting one shoulder. As he drove off he yelled back over the engine,"My name is Gabrielle."

"Was he an angel?" my younger one asked sleepily.

"Maybe," I replied. You see, that’s the thing about traveling with small children. You never know when you're going to get personalized assistance from hot French man-angels!

Magnifique!

No Naked Flying

No one can say I ever let America down. I've always represented my country well. I’m not talking about participation in the Olympics or leading Middle East peace talks or even organizing aid for people in far flung places. I’m talking about how I clean a house when I am returning from a house swap.

While in somone else's house on an exchange, the kids have put their fingers all over the windows. As a family, we've certainly been guilty of mixing up the convoluted trash and recycling systems we've encountered. My husband has even walked inside with mud (sand or snow, depending on the locale) all over his boots. But I, personally, have never, ever, left a house anything less than perfect.

My obsession with a clean house is precisely what led to my downfall one July morning when I found myself cleaning our Ireland exchange home at 5 am. It’s not the hour, but the fact I had decided to let the children sleep until the last minute, that was my undoing. Working side by side with my girlfriend who had come for a few weeks, we carefully backed out of the house. We dusted and mopped the whole way as quietly as possible so as not to wake the darlings until the last possible moment. Finally, we stopped to admire the sparkling foyer with our bags neatly stacked in the corner.

The joy in that quiet moment was rudely interrupted by Little Lord Fauntleroy, otherwise known as my younger son Johnny, who appeared naked and furious in the front hall. Looking around at the suitcases and mopped floor he stepped to the open doorway and bellowed ‘I’m not leaving’ into the quiet dawn of the neighborhood. Then he promptly slammed and locked the door. The reverberations could be heard in the next county.

We immediately sprinted to the back door just in time to hear the lock click home and his bare feet stomping away. Grasping onto the kitchen window sill (they don’t need screens in Ireland) I hoisted my way inside and ran after the naked boy who then slammed and locked the bedroom door.

It was now 7 am and I was digging around the tool box for a jimmy to open the door. ‘Get the bags, corral the other kids and meet you in the car’ I yelled over my shoulder at my friend while I wiggled different instruments into the keyhole. Our international flight left in 3 hours and we had a 20 minute drive to the airport. I started to sweat profusely. She and the other kids scurried outside and left the two of us alone in the house with the door dividing us. That’s when the negotiations began.

My lesson is to never negotiate from a point of such obvious disparity. I am embarrassed to say I gave everything away: the car, the house, pony rides, candy for breakfast, unlimited visits to Toys R Us, Chuck E Cheese birthday parties through age 45, a family holiday at Disney, a room of his own, lower oil prices – oops. Henry Kissinger could have learned a thing or two from this kid.

Johnny finally cracked the door and agreed to a temporary cease fire if I got him Chocolate milk. We quickly scooted downstairs where I made the naked boy chocolate milk and asked if we could please retire to the car because mommy and daddy paid over four thousand dollars for our tickets and if Daddy drove to the airport expecting to pick us up he’d be very sad if we weren’t there. I didn’t mention how sad Daddy would be if he found out we defaulted on our tickets.

The dawdling continued until I took the bull by the horns so to speak. I picked him up, carried him to the car, locking the front door while holding him sidewise. I locked him in the car seat and quickly tossed his pants, shirt, shoes, socks and underwear pell-mell into the back seat. We sped away.

My girlfriend’s eyes were huge. She had only one daughter who was still a baby. She had not yet experienced the joys and ah – tribulations – of a three year old who wants to drive his or her own boat no matter the cost. The other kids were stone quiet as well, probably because they could see the steam coming out of my ears. We drove in strained silence until a small voice rose from under the clothes in the back seat and announced, ‘Mommy, I’m cold.’

I'll have you note I did not laugh at this.

When we parked the car in the garage he remained steadfast in his naked revolt. So, we jogged to the gate with Johnny in the stroller, wrapped in a blanket and with a snarl on his face. We made it within minutes of our ‘lock out time’ for our flight. There, the airline attendant neatly explained to him that naked flying was not tolerated under any circumstances and that’s when part two of this saga commenced.

People waiting on line to board our plane had a wonderful view of the wrestling match going on between yours truly and darling son. I put Johnny’s shirt on him while he ripped off his sox. I put one shoe on his bare foot while he ripped off the other shoe. When he threw the blanket at my head I decided to go with the moment and, as dignified as possible, I picked it off my head and wrapped it around my naked son.

Once more wrapped in a blanket, Johnny was carried at top speed toward the closing ramp doors. I threw the agent the tickets and jogged to the end of the ramp with the stroller folded up in one arm and my naked son in the other. At the door a pilot getting on board glanced over and said in his official, calm, ‘you must listen to me because I'm in charge’ pilot voice said, ‘you know, son, there’s no naked flying on Aer Lingus.’

My darling son sagely nodded his head in agreement and said from the sidewise position in which I was holding him, ‘If Mommy puts me down I would like to get dressed.’

Of course once he was on terra firma he proceeded to dress quickly and correctly, imitating an obedient boy. I couldn’t look the pilot in the eye though I definitely heard a chuckle as he got onboard. It is an amazing thing to say at this point, but it is true: we actually walked onto the plane like regular people, said hello to the attendants and were seated politely in our seats before take off. The only think I could mutter before nodding off to sleep was, ‘Irish coffee.’

Further Adventures with Blankie

As an experienced traveler with children, I thought I could pack a few carpet bags, grab a kid under each arm and fire up the umbrella like Mary Poppins for a quick jaunt to the beach. Not being ‘Practically Perfect,’ herein is the tale of what happens to someone with my hubris. I should have known….

One steamy Saturday afternoon I packed the kids in the station wagon, waved good bye to Patrick and got on the road at exactly 4 pm along with all the other people driving to the beach. What started as a three hour tour turned into five long hours. Finally seeing seagulls pooping on our window, we put away our individual electronic devices (not, me I always drive with two hands on the wheel!) and started chattering about the holes we’d dig on the beach. That’s when Johnny asked the most dreaded of all questions, ‘Where is blankie?’

‘I packed him.’ I said confidently, ‘in your bag on the floor at your feet.’ He looked down and started to wail piteously. ‘You did pack it,’ Francis clarified, ever happy to enhance his brother’s pain, ‘but Johnny took it out when you went back inside to feed the dogs. He must have left it at home.’ The wailing turned horrifically high pitched.

Channeling Dankia Patrick, I yanked the car across three lanes of traffic and into a screeching halt on the shoulder. Cars whizzed by, as I emptied the entire contents of the station wagon onto the side of the road. Beach toys, umbrellas, chairs, boogie boards, board games, the spare tire – everything - was hurled onto the grass. When I threw open the suitcases, cars started slowing down thinking I was conducting an impromptu trunk sale. I waved them away with one hand while I dug around my suitcase with the other, spilling underwear and copies of People Magazine.

‘We’ll buy a new one when we get to the beach,’ I said brightly as I got back in and started moving. The wailing had turned to sniffles as Johnny paused for a minute and then started the barrage that would never end: ‘It has to be blue, it has to have three stars and two moons, it has to be soft but not too smushy, it has to smell the same, it has to have ripped edges, it has to have the stain in the left corner, it has to….’
Like people on a deserted island who hallucinate about rescue planes, I convinced myself I’d be able to find Blankie’s replacement on Saturday night at 8:30 pm in a store along Ocean Highway. My husband, I mean Francis, cheerily commented, ‘you’ll never find an exact match.’ I asked people along the street, sweat dripping from my brow. They looked at me askance and kept walking. I called an interior designer friend who said there used to be a shop, but it had gone out of business. I called my brother-in-law with a child of similar propensities and was told to give up the ship. Not knowing what else to do, I wheeled in to the nearest candy shop.

Plied with sugar and way past bedtime, we arrived at the beach cottage. At midnight they finally nodded off to sleep in front of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Johnny whimpering the whole time. He woke up every hour on the hour to let me know in a sobbing crying puddling mess that Blankie was no where about. At 5:30 am we called Patrick to discuss The Code Red. He put Blankie on the phone who promised Johnny he’d meet us at the beach by 10 am the next morning. 28 hours to go.

I decided to conduct Olympic Games on the beach that day. We ran races, dug deep, built high and flew kites like Chinese children. That night we ate at the boardwalk in front of blaring music and neon lights. We went on rides. We did every possible exhausting thing, but to no avail. We were up all night again holding vigil, staring glassy-eyed at Blankie's cheesy replacement I had purchased on the boardwalk. Francis snored on, completely unperturbed by the shenanigans going on in the house.

At 9:55 on the dot a shinny white truck drove up to our front stoop where we had been sitting since dawn. A handsome, smiling man got down and approached us with the Holy Grail in his very hands. Handel’s ‘Messiah’ started playing softly in the background as the man handed the box to my son who stood, mouth agape. ‘Is this Blankie?’ He asked reverently. The man nodded and Johnny hugged the box to his thin chest, eyes shinning. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He sobbed out as he hugged the poor guy. I had to detach Johnny’s skinny arms from the man so we could open the box and celebrate the reunion appropriately (and so the man could get on with his job).

In our family, FedEx will forever be associated with all things good and wonderful. We would have easily spent seven times the charge for to have Blankie join us at the beach. As a matter of fact, Johnny would have robbed his entire piggy bank and traded all futures (a.k.a. Friday allowances) for the moment. Patrick and I are so grateful we are buying stock as soon as we have $43 to purchase a share. We believe everyone should step forward to support this - the most wonderful company in the world! If anyone has any doubts, I would like to refer you to exhibit A below:

'The Reunion'

Children of the Bog

The thing about Irish people is that they know exactly what to do with children. Not to categorize people by their nationality; but, this curious fact is exactly what I was ruminating on while we sat in a busy pub cum restaurant in the small town of Navan in County Meath. We waited (and waited) for the spangle haired, eyebrow pierced waitress to put her beer down and come over. Finally she did and Patrick and I ordered Guinness while the kids piped up from under the seat from whence they had crawled, and from whence they were thwacking, ‘Two cokes, French fries and ice cream.’ The waitress laughed and walked away before we could correct the order.

Patrick and I looked at each other and shrugged. We usually try to have the kids eat healthfully, but we were in the wrong time zone and couldn’t think straight, so we quietly sipped Guinness and tried to ignore the banging under the table. Then, miracle upon miracles, the Goth girl came back and slapped down two snowy glasses of milk, fish and peas on the table near where the boys theoretically sat. ‘It’s what you ordered, isn’t it?’ bending under the table to greet them eye to eye. Needless to say we introduced her to American style tipping.

This particular day in July was like every other in Ireland during our stay: freezing cold and raining. I, personally, was ecstatic about this because I think I look better in sweaters and it’s an excuse to sit inside and read. The kids and husband; however, were bored out of their gords. So, I guided the mumbling group out of the lunch place to the car for a short (yet properly harrowing) drive to the outskirts of Navan. We were scheduled to participate in a working farm in the afternoon which Patrick particularly funny because we happen to live on one at home.

Once we got to Causey Farm, we just stopped the car; or, more correctly, the car stopped us. We simply drove until the road got too muddy and then left the car where it got stuck. Under normal circumstances, we would never even consider driving into a field and abandoning another person’s car in a bog. We were certainly hoping the Irish family staying in our house wasn’t doing the same thing. However, it seemed like the right thing to do. We felt guilty about it, but the buses carrying children were doing the same, so we looked back quickly and followed the group.

As we climbed up from the back field, we passed two ‘hordes’ of children being led by instructors striding firmly along in knee boats. We were clearly the only non school group there and definitely the only tourists. Slugging behind the hordes of children, I could feel my husband staring holes in my back. The ‘you have no idea where you have led us’ was emanating from him and; quite frankly, I was thinking the same.

When we finally crested the hill we could see through the driving rain to an outlay of farm buildings surrounding a slippery cobbled courtyard. Puppies rushed up to greet us and a handsome man with a large umbrella was pointing the hordes of children and teenagers toward covered pavilions to the left and, praise god and all his saints, pointing the adults toward an open door in an old stone house to the right. Our kids got directed along with us because of our status as the ‘only tourists’.

As we followed the teachers inside, we were met by a roaring fire (really, I did not read this in a book) and tables set longwise with homemade brown soda bread, jam, clotted cream and tea. Then, my eyes set on the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life: a coffee urn. Having bravely sipped tea for two weeks, I almost knelt down and prayed a novena to the urn sitting in the middle of the snowy white table cloth. Heaven! Even the kids sat quietly with jam all over their mouths, their large eyes taking in the quick talking Irish going back and forth across the tables.

We found out that the handsome man and his lovely sister were descendents of the Murtagh family who had been farming in this region for over a thousand years. Besides the turf, they have beef cattle, sheep, ponies, barn cats and; of course, puppies. Our farm visit was to include a trip to the bogs, clay making, bubble blowing and Bodhran lessons. And, of course, all the coffee, fresh milk and bread we could inhale. The kids just nodded their heads not understanding anything but tasty jam and a dry, warm room.

After an extended chat with the owners and some very entertaining teachers, we put on our gear and went out into the rain that had turned from steady to driving. Mr. Murtagh joked that it’s the only variation in the weather you’ll experience in Ireland. Once in the courtyard, the teachers transformed from laughing, joking laid back people to perfect militant organizers: lining children up, backing up farm trucks, demanding covers to open beds, making sure all the children had all the limbs they arrived with and driving the entire singing, laughing, rustling group out about 4 miles to the bog fields. As we followed behind, a tractor passed us and stopped, beeping his horn. The teacher on board yelled out ‘don’t the kids want to ride?’ Mine jumped on before I could speak and the caravan carried on. We held hands and walked very slowly through the rain.

When we got to the bog every child was partially naked and completely covered in mud. Thank God a teacher we met named Kate pointed out our children, otherwise we never would have recognized them. Everyone was screeching and swinging from low branches and falling into the bog. Larger children were hauling smaller children to the side when they got stuck. Some of the teachers had gone in with the kids, but were playing themselves – whacking each other and various targets with mud.

Can you find the American children?

Francis! Johnny! I called out and thirty children turned their heads. ‘Not the most limiting of names to cry out in the middle of Ireland,’ Patrick dryly noted. My two muddy messes came forward and the rest of the group followed the teachers toward a path toward an obstacle course they called ‘Challenge Course’ that somehow made everyone even muddier. After everyone was completely worn out, the tractors picked us up to drive us back. There, we had warm showers, changed clothes and participated in the clay modeling, bubble blowing and the rolling around with the puppies.

Stuffed with more jam and tea (read coffee), wrung out, muddy (again), and barely awake, we lumbered back to the car and realized the rain had made our car situation worse. The wheels were half way covered in mud. Luckily, a few sheep shearers were taking a break drinking ‘something’ under a small shed and came over to help Patrick and a few men teachers literally lift the vehicle up and put it on the high road. They were appalled at Patrick’s attempt to tip them. Finally, we dug some Guinness bottles out of the trunk and they grudgingly accepted them with the stipulation that we tell our friends about the farm. I have just done so here so will sign off for now.

'Stop Touching Me,' Or our Drive to Quebec

I’ve never been able to understand those people who say, with the confidence projected only by someone who knows all the secrets to life and will impart them upon you whether or not you are interested, ‘it’s not important where you go so much as the journey you take.’ I’m here to tell you that is absolutely not true. Or, at least not in my family. For example, we recently had a very nice visit in Quebec. Yet the journey there and back was, in all honesty, very similar (but not exactly the same) as having pointed Bamboo shoots stuck into one's eye.

With the gas prices making everyone sputter this summer, it’s really painful to try to buy plane tickets for a family of four and then justify the cost of eating as well. We solved the dilemma by planning a good old fashioned road trip for our vacation instead of our usual house swap which requires plane flight. Traveling in a car is more cost-efficient, we had reasoned, and, we can stop whenever we want or take fun detours. Oh, but every silver lining has a cloud as my Mother would say!

Rather than bore you with mile by mile detail, I’ll just sum up our trip in three words: ‘stop touching me.’ If you have an only child I can’t imagine what annoying game he or she can drum up to equal the oldest and most irritating of: ‘stop touching me’. It’s so much a part of our culture, that I would bet Pilgrim children were doing this whilst leaning on the railing looking for Plymouth Rock and Pioneer boys and girls were whacking each other to the point of making the wagons tip over. This game is played in our family with such vigor and single minded focus, that I’m hoping they have a ‘stop touching me’ degree at Harvard so my kids can apply. If you are unfamiliar with this game, then continue doing whatever it is you do with your children because it’s working and please forward me the details so I can incorporate immediately.

I’m happy to report that Johnny touched Francis 789 times and Francis retaliated by touching Johnny 790 times. Or that was our tally when we crossed the border and they finally fell asleep 10 hours into the drive. To give them credit, they did break from this game for about 45 minutes to run the fast food gauntlet as we drove along I95 in New York. It went something like:

‘Can we stop at McDonald’s?’
‘No.’
‘Burger King?’
‘No.’
‘Chick Fil-et?’
‘No.’
‘Subway? That’s not junk food.’
‘No. It’s gross.’
‘Mom’s asleep, can we stop at Wendy’s?’
‘You’re wrong and no.’

And on until we finally stopped at what I thought would be remotely healthy ‘Cracker Barrel’ where we waited 45 minutes for a pricier, bigger portioned version of the same thing. As my brother’s fast food conspiracy goes, they are built close to each other because they all share a common kitchen underground. Different cartons are used to fool you, but the food is all cooked by the very same Blackbeard and his rowdy crew chewing tobacco and spitting it into your food. After careful research I also believe this to be true.

Quebec was great. Then we had to return the same way we got there.

Four hours of happy driving came to an abrupt halt when we waved passed the border guards into New York and my younger son noticed a travesty that will henceforth be known as the worst moment in the history of the western hemisphere: Blankie was missing. The tears and lamentations were so extreme that both boys forgot about ‘stop touching me’. Patrick and I whispered furiously trying to reconstruct blankie’s visit step by step and came to the horrific conclusion that he (meaning Blankie) had been left in the window seat of the tiny little café we had stopped at because it was off the beaten path. We had no idea where the place was because we were ‘off the beaten path’ – otherwise known as lost - when we stopped. We had paid cash so there was no number to call or address to write. We were sunk.

With the wailing at a fevered pitch, Patrick focused on keeping the car on the road while I went through my phone list, sending out an SOS to all friends and family. Finally, Aunt Genie called back, AKA blankie’s official seemstress. She told us she had actually made two of the exact same models: one for Johnny and one for a cousin who was still a baby. She put us on hold while she called to see if the baby would miss his blankie if it were given to Johnny. She promised to make the baby cousin something even more spectacular. We promised to pay for threads of pure gold and silver for the replacement.

After multi-line negotiations, this trans-country, bi-lateral trade agreement was reached and we immediately started to distract Johnny with tales of Blankie – which you can read to the right of this column as I’m sure you are dying to do. We promised that Blankie had taken a different route home and would be meeting us at the house that night. The tears slowed to snuffles and ‘stop touching me’ was tentatively started up again. That’s when we knew it was going to be all right.

In case Johnny grows up, learns to read, and looks at this blog (assuming the Internet still exists in the same form 20 years from now), I’m going to tell you the conclusion of the saga like so:

le blankie est un article truqué. Le vrai blankie habite au Québec.

Ode to NJ Turnpike

Ah, the summer and the open road. It reminds me of every summer as a child, when my siblings and I would be packed like stinky sardines into the hot sweaty station with the luggage carrier on top. My dad would proceed to twist the wheel and complain about bad drivers (a category into which he clearly fit), while my mom would roll and unroll the map taking time out to whack us with it when the situation required. We’d drive out from our little community in the country to the big ‘highway’ as they say in the east: otherwise known as the infamous ‘Jersey Turnpike.’

Once we hit the Turnpike, we’d choose a different direction each year. Sometimes we’d go north to the cool Maine countryside or to raucous ‘Baston.’ Often we’d go East to the Jersey Shore or West to Pennsylvania’s Amish Country since they were both close and cheap; though I, for one, got tired of ‘Shofly Pie and Amish children who would sprint away and hide behind their buggies when they ‘regular’ children like us. One time we went all the way South to Disney Land and got great pictures of my brothers goofing off by a sign that reads ’90 miles to Cuba.’

My sister would stick her pointy little Barbie Doll feet into my bum and my little brother would spill sour milk down the back of my shirt, but I didn’t care. But, we were on the road: Traveling someplace more fun and exciting than home. I loved the whole process of curling up against the window to let the breeze blow on my face and watch the miles tick by. I would dream of what we’d do when we got ‘there,’ of all the exciting people I would meet (minus Amish children of course) and all the exciting things we would do. The experience itself could never meet my grandiose expectations – but it was so much fun to plan in my mind, I didn’t care.

It was an innocent time: before portable DVD players, Ipods, individual sound systems or even (really, I kid you not) standard car air conditioning. Even seat belts were optional. I remember my Dad letting my siblings and I ‘drive’ on the farm by sitting on his lap and moving the wheel while he waved his hands about in supposed fear (he did take the precaution to drive with his knees but we never knew). It was all perfectly legal and dangerous but that’s how things were done until the laws started to catch up with the times.

Not that I want to go back to the non-air-conditioning, loosy goosey seat belt era, but there are a few nuggets of wisdom we can take with us from those times to use when traveling with small children today. As my Dad always said, you must have a POA (plan of action for non-military folk) so here are some tips from my parent’s POA handbook for use today:

Dole out any food like crumbs in ‘Hansel and Gretel’
I’d bet dollars to donuts your parents never just handed you a bag of Jo Jo Bees. Instead, they would talk about it to get your mouth watering. Then they’d describe the store they were going to buy it in and talk about the different colors and flavors in the bag and even where it would be hanging in the store.

Then they’d calmly explain that you’d get some if you were good all the way to exit 67. Then you’d have to be good through four hours of a painful museum exhibition. Then you’d have to be not just ‘good’ but ‘excitedly participating’ during a 10 mile hike in the boiling buggy hot North Carolina foothills. Basically, they’d continually up the ante until you thought there wasn’t a hope of a snowball’s chance that you’d actually get the Jo Jo Bees. Then, and only then, would your Mother rustle open the bag and dole out five measly candies total. Here’s where they’d watch to see how you divided it among four children and when you reached your hand up for more, your Dad would grab the bag and eat the rest to ‘teach you to share.’

It was tortuous. But, thinking back: I realize we looked forward to those Jo Jo Bees more than the actual trip to Disneyland. We were so mentally occupied we barely noticed the fourteen hours of driving done that day. Good tactic – I apply it in my own household today.

Torturing children with painful music will help build team camaraderie
‘Do wop’ music played at volume ten with parents croaking along can make a child do absolutely anything. I have such bad memories of it that if I hear ‘Do Wop’ music today I start to shiver and have to excuse myself to the bathroom. As children, we would agree to just about anything to get it to stop. A rousing patriotic sing-along was just fine. We’d happily hum along to everything from ‘America the Beautiful’, to ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ to ‘Tis Good to be Simple’ (though the Amish connotation annoyed me).

We would agree to quietly play board games or ‘eye spy with my little eye’ just to make sure they didn’t turn that music back on. I personally felt the effectiveness of this tactic and have updated it to use today with my children. I threaten cheesy early 80’s music (Bee Gees or Karen Carpenter are good) and singing along. If all else fails, I pop in Broadway tunes. Annie’s ‘The Sun will come out’ or ‘Put on a Happy Face’ really can’t be beat. I guarantee - and your money back - that your children will behave after Annie.

Electronic entertainment is your trump card
Nowadays, people plunk on the DVD player just to drive to the grocery store. I have no issue with that on its face, but if you do this you must be aware of the fact that you are ostensibly spoiling your only true trump card. My advise regarding the DVD player is twofold: 1) separate earphones for the entire family so you can put yours on, not plug them in and smile and ignore everyone; and 2) As Benedict Arnold said, ‘don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.’ That’s right, don’t pull the proverbial trigger. Hold on until your children are rolling their heads on the back of the headrest and their eyes are crossed to whites in utter boredom: Then and only then should you start the debate on the movie to be seen. If they can’t agree you simply give them a glimpse of the Holy Grail (AKA the DVD player) and then tuck it back under the seat.

I’d suggest getting a splitter for your DVD machine that will allow up to 4 earphones to be plugged in (that is unless you can afford the space, time and money for each child to have his/her own machine. Even if you can, I wouldn’t recommend it because it cuts out some of your bargaining time). Don’t forget to charge up the battery at your hotel or you’ll have to use the car charger the next day.

Exploit the ubiquitous ‘fear of the child’ for upgrades
When you have reached the end of your journey for the day and are checking into a hotel, make sure to register with the thinnest woman with perfect nails and jewelry or a man with similar looks (really). My highly scientific factual research has found that these people are least likely to have children of their own and; therefore, most likely to take your threats seriously. As a seasoned parent, you can certainly think of phrases that will best motivate front desk reservation agents, so I’ll just give you a few examples:

‘Do you think we can have the free breakfast buffet delivered to our room with some Bloody Mary Mix and two classes of Vodka? Poor Theodora here tends to slop her food all over her face and then stick her tongue out like a cow and lick the combination of food and boogers off her face. When she’s done with that she usually throws her plate upside down on the floor, strips, and covers her entire body in the remaining food. We don’t like to inhibit her creative expression.’

‘Can we possibly get a free shuttle ride to the next continent? Our car broke down out front by the main entrance and we were thinking of setting up camp here using tents with the baby’s diapers. We’re traveling en route to a family reunion: the Clampetts.’

‘If you don’t mind, we’ll have a room in the quiet section of the hotel. Otherwise, Junior here will wake up like he always does. He’ll screech his little lungs out from about midnight to dawn and the only way to stop him is to turn on Barney volume 100. It at least makes him pause a few seconds before starting back up.’

Once you’ve memorized lines like these, you too, can be treated like The Donald and Melana while checking into the Comfort Inn.

Nothing makes a parent anxious like a sick child. And nothing makes a parent more anxious than a sick child while on vacation. Even traditionally calm parents will panic and conjure nightmare-like images. I think this is particularly true if you're a card carrying member of the American health care system. You can't help but think, 'if it's this bad at home, how bad will it be in say, Istanbul?'

Well, I'm happy to report that we recently returned from our home swap to France with all three children intact, though we parents have additional grey hair to show for it. We now look back on the experience with a bit of a smile and a reminiscent air, but at the time we were – to put it lightly - petrified.

When we landed from our flight, we realized the two-year-old had picked up a virus on the flight or on one of the layovers and had a 105 fever that was compounded by the boiling heat of the south of France. When we got in the car, we took off his shirt, doused his neck with water and drove to our 'home for the summer' with the soft breeze blowing on his face hoping to break the fever. No such luck.

He was actually warmer and more listless by the time we got to our home about ten miles inland from the coast. We quickly unlocked the door, dumped our bags, and looked around for the phone and details on local pediatricians and hospitals. Frantically searching the kitchen table and counters I felt chills run down my back: Where was all the information we were promised?

The home swappers and I had had two phone conversations and many emails about what was required information for each of us to leave for the other. This being our first home swap, we asked for the simple things like: emergency contact numbers and instructions on how to use the phone. In turn, I left a three inch cross referenced binder with all emergency personnel within a 45 mile radius as well as places to see, good local restaurants to go to, how to make the dryer run, etc. (I know, I'm wound tight, but it can be useful at times like this).

Unfortunately, the people we swapped left all the details on the restaurants and beaches but failed to leave anything on Dr's, hospitals, emergency numbers or even how to use their phone. I need to note here that the woman we swapped with was an American who had married a German who lived in France. Without a native French couple’s intervention we would have been in deep ‘doo doo’ (technically put). But let me continue…

So we did what most couples do when under stress: started to bicker. My husband blamed me for setting up the home swap in the first place and I blamed him for not bringing the antibiotic our pediatrician at home had prescribed for us in case of a situation just like this. We made each other more nervous so I went into the garage and dug out an old bicycle thinking I’d ride it into town and figure things out. I thought maybe I would see a business district or ask people at the grocery store. After about twenty minutes, I finally found a little market but it was closed for everyone's 'dejeuner.'

Riding back into our house, I glanced over a little stone fence separating our yard from the neighbors' and saw a swing set and little pool with kids playing quietly. I leaned my bike on the gate and started knocking emphatically. The well behaved children ran inside to get their mother, frightened out of the wits of the bizarre looking woman in long black pants and shirt- sweating on a bike at their front gate.

Thank God Mathilde came out with her husband, Phillipe. They were clever enough to assess the situation and know what to do: they brought me in their cool, shade drawn house and Phillipe brought me a cup of chilled wine with water while Mathilde made about a dozen calls until she found a Dr's office that was open late. They were concerned we didn’t know where we were going and didn’t want to set lose on the town two panicked Americans wheeling down the road, so she drove us to the office in town. There was absolutely no way we would have found this office on our own. It was at the top floor of a house in the middle of gardens and small, quaint houses.

Almost immediately the Dr’s big form filled the doorway. ‘Oui, Americans?’ He said as he pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and waved us in impatiently. The room was an office suite with his desk and leather chairs on one end and an exam table, books, medicine, medical tools from floor to ceiling at the other. It looked like an apothecary, medical office and living room all mixed together; which, to be honest, made us all relax a notch.

Speaking only Latin to us (Thank God Patrick went to Catholic schools), this huge man handled our sick sun with the utmost of care. He gave Johnny an IV of fluids and antibiotics while holding him along in a bear hug the entire time. When Johnny perked up, the Dr. handed him to Patrick to hold so he wouldn't be startled. He then mixed up a concoction of vitamins, herbs and antibiotics from behind his desk and handed the bottle to us in a brown paper bag. He also gave supplements for our other son to ‘protect and secure’ against catching the same thing.

’Twenty Euro’ he said washing his hands. We looked at each other. Do we pay him? The girl in the front? Is this just for the medicine? Will we get a huge bill for the rest? Should we call the bank and start sending large sums of cash? We whispered back and forth until the Dr. patiently wrote down on a piece of paper in huge black marker ’20 Euro’. Patrick handed it to him with a tip. The Doc smiled at that and put the money in his pocket.

His instructions, which he wrote down, were for us all to go home and sleep and eat. The children were not to drink milk or eat cheese or yogurt for 2 days but the adults were to drink 1 glass of red wine before bed. Then, when we had caught up on sleep, we were to take a family trip to the beach and sit in the sun all day. Now, there’s a Dr for you, I thought happily!



We thanked Mathilde profusely while she drove us home, inquiring as to the standard ways one visits a Dr. here. She asked us with a confused look, ‘why were you so nervous? Did you think your child would not be cared for?’ We kept quiet. ‘But we are civilized here,’ She insisted in her imperial French way and; after our experience, we are forever grateful for that fact. It was such a civilized experience. We only wish it were offered at home.

The Battle at the Pont Du Guard

The Pont Du Guard is an astounding three story aqueduct that was built by the Romans in 9th century B.C. to carry water to the ancient city of Nimes. For Centuries soldiers, horses, pilgrims, beggars, lords and ladies, backpackers and vacationing families have hiked across the stone walkway shaded by graceful arches. It has been a place of peace, beauty and undisturbed history until the day my family arrived.

It was a typical boiling hot day in the south of France in the Languedoc-Roussillon region nicknamed 'the cauldron' because anyone experiencing the weather acts like a complete witch. We decided to picnic under the trees, hoping the shade and the babbling Gardon river would give us reprieve before hiking up to the bridge. So, we unfolded ourselves from the rented Renault and marched hot, sweaty and thirsty toward the trees.

A French family doing the same showed us where we could get chilled wine and juice. When I returned with drinks for my family, my naked children were frolicking in the river, following the French children upstream. My traitorous husband was leaning back on his elbows gawking at the mostly naked French women along the beach. He smiled when I walked up as if I were a Giesha with wine and grapes. I plunked the wine bottle in the sand and told him he had to gnaw off the cork because I had no idea where the Swiss army knife had gone. I was grateful at least he wasn’t naked and upstream along with the children.

After some chilled wine, I too, loosened some clothes and we waded up stream toward the children. The view from under the bridge was ‘magnifiques’ as our French compatriots had commented. They had taken pity on us and shared their cork screw before my husband lost his front teeth de-corking the bottle.

We followed the couple up to where our children were playing and that’s when her husband spoke for the first and only time. He said with a small wave at their children daintily walking along stones and ours hurling themselves in and out of the river at top volume and speed, ‘one can always tell the level of a culture by the behavior of its children.’ So, we gathered ours up, waved ‘au revoir’ and marched everyone quick time to the top of the bridge.

As we made our way toward the Sartanette Valley, a battle started that will forever reverberate among the ancient stones:

‘You must carry me’ demanded our three year old Johnny in his most royal and carrying voice.

My husband, being kind and not wanting a scene, agreed. I helped lift Johnny up and followed the two of them as they teetered back and forth, barely missing passersby. Huffing and puffing along, the redness of my pale, Irish husband’s face could only be matched by the redness of my pale, half Irish son’s face which was scrunched in the most offending scowl known to mankind.

We carried on like that until Johnny started screaming and kicking. He kicked Patrick in the chest and back and then started whacking him on the head, which of course, made his precarious perch extremely dangerous. That was it.



We stopped in the middle of the Pont du Guard as crowds of people moved around us.

‘You must stop,’ I commanded looking up at my son who was now about two feet taller than I.

‘No!’ he bellowed looking around to make sure the audience appreciated his performance.

Then Johnny squirmed and swayed making the crowds around us ‘oh and ah’ as he and my husband teetered side to side near the edge.

A tall French man passing by reached up and plucked Johnny down giving us a gentle smile.
Johnny immediately dissolved into the stones creating a crying, moaning, screaming, kicking blob. We stood in a circle around him.

‘Johnny!’ Patrick said, ‘we’re going to walk and you’re going to hold Daddy’s hand right now.’

The blob stopped moving long enough for it to yell, ‘no!’

Then he picked up some stones and started hurling them toward the river almost knocking out a lovely pair of Japanese women. The crowd immediately started to disperse. Clearly no one wanted to get stoned to death. Patrick was done.

‘Michael, Mommy & I are walking to the end right now. We hope you will join us,’ He said as he grabbed our older son’s hand and mine. We started across very slowly while looking back.

People walking toward us gave conflicting reports. ‘He’s starting to walk,’ a backpacker said.

‘No, no, he’s back down,’ said the backpacker’s girlfriend.

‘It’s appalling what you are doing to that poor child,’ said an older American couple.

‘Keep going – he’ll follow soon enough,’ commented an older English woman.

‘Bravo!’ from an Italian woman, her mother and three children in tow.

We carried on with Johnny moving like a cow with a sore back as he dramatically flopped one hand in front of the other, sobbing and crawling pathetically toward us.

‘There’s ice cream when we reach the end.’ Patrick said yelled back.

At that, Johnny stopped, stood up and skipped the rest of the way, smiling. Our family walked the last few feet off the aqueduct, hand in hand.

And that, my people, was how the battle over the River Gardon was won. The Romans, Thank God, built things to last and I am happy to report that the bridge is still there despite the havoc wrecked on it that day. It’s just missing a few stones.

Trying to get to the airport on time

Airline stories are like labor stories: everyone's got one and theirs is always worse than yours. But, there are lessons to be learned in all of these stories. I hope mine is helpful in debunking some incorrect assumptions about air travel to help a fellow parent who finds him or herself alone and ‘traveling with small children.’

Incorrect assumption Number 1 - You can get an airline seat before flying.
This is just an urban legend. Let me explain:

As a consciences mom flying on my own with a two and five-year-old to the south of France at the height of the season, I thought it best to purchase my tickets over the phone and pay the airline’s $20 'processing fee' per ticket. I wanted to make sure we had our seats and this way seemed safer than leaving it up to the vagaries of the Internet. After a hold period during which the next Neolithic age occurred, I got our seats 14 ABC. In a row. One Row. Together.

Incorrect assumption number 2: a boarding pass =a boarding pass.
A week after booking our seats conveniently over the phone while practicing my Spanish with the customer service rep, I was sent an email confirming my seats. They were – I kid you not: the two-year-old in 5C. The five-year-old in 38 F. And I, of course, was flying stand by.

So, I did what all women under duress do: called my friend. She immediately came over and called US Air pretending to be me. While I drank vodka sours and watched 3 sunsets go by, she fixed our tickets. We were back in our little row. We were assured it was just a computer glitch. It would all be just fine when we got to the airport. We were told not to worry.

Incorrect Assumption No 3: Airlines would never seat parents away from their children.
Not so! Explained the US Air ticket person after I had waited on line with two children who were licking the airport floor and digging through their bags for bits of candy left over from last year’s trip. After lecturing me on the stresses of her job, the ticket agent handed us our new seats and explained that, for security reasons, we could not sit together and she could not tell us why. She told me if I wanted to go at all, I had better hi-tail my rugrats and myself to the gate ASAP. I meekly did as I was told.


Incorrect assumption No 4: people are not as scared of your children as they should be.
After a protracted but pointless gesticulating exchange with the boarding person at the gate who was on hold the entire time with her boyfriend (cell) and husband (line 2), I boarded the nine hr flight and obediently placed my two-year-old in 5C and the five year old in 38F. I then stood in the isle like a gypsy girl begging for change all whilst trying to stare down any potential traveling lechers. Having paid $1,150 per ticket really heightened this experience.

Incorrect assumption number 5: size doesn’t matter.
For security purposes (or so I was told) the flight attendants moved a very nice 740 lb woman to sit next to my two-year-old. The lady immediately moved up the armrest and rolled onto his seat. I have nothing against this action in general as this was clearly necessary. However, I have to note, it was his seat. Then, they moved the 5 yr old so he was in the seat near the bathrooms (only 2 rows behind but closer now) which would prove to be very exciting because he pukes at funny smells.

Incorrect assumption number 6: The more you pay, the better the service.
I was sweating and laughing manically at the same time while blocking the main isle. Maybe that’s why a businessman was prompted to say as he whisked by me that he’d really rather sleep on the floor in baggage claim at JFK than fly on this plane. I tried to ignore the eyes boring into the back of my head as I calmly sat down in a row seat that was created for me directly across from the lady in two seats and my children. Just noting at this point: total cost in tickets, fees and taxes for our flight: $3,510.

Epilogue:
Well, the good news is: the lady had lots of great treats in her purse and didn’t mind at all that my two kids were in her row. I sat peacefully across the isle and rationalized that the $1,150 seat she was using was just a small price to pay in baby sitting fees for the flight over.

Our flight had three other families (and, also three skater dudes traveling as a group) who had similar tales and had to trade seats like desperate bookies 30 seconds before the bell rings at the dog track. My family did fine because we had two trump cards: two aisle seats. We also were lucky enough to have an ace in the hole: a four-year-old who pukes. The other families didn't fare as well.

The airline attendants were very nice but couldn't possibly help with the physics of reseating the entire plane. They did say that for ‘some reason’ the airline does this all the time and asked me to write a letter to the president. Because I have time to explain to these people that seating families together might be the first step toward International flight peace.

I will gladly share any response from the airline once I finish my letter.

SWAPPING
'Traveling with small children is like traveling with untamed dogs’ said the Englishwoman to my left in her best ‘Upstairs/Downstairs’ accent. Six hours into a ten our flight, I felt she was being very kind. We were, after all, packed cheek to sweaty jowl in our middle seats with one son rhythmically kicking the chair in front and the other licking the tray table from left to right (having previously covered right to left).

I never thought our little home would be snapped up so quickly when I placed it on the home swap site: homelink.org. After all, unlike many of the other houses, we didn't have a swimming pool, fireplace, or even upgraded appliances. We didn’t live in an upscale community or own a mansion on five acres, or even a ‘Mc’ mansion. No, just a tiny 1930’s house with a pretty yard. Its fine, we just never imagined it’d be popular on the house exchange circuit. Flattered, we wrote back and forth and agreed to a date quickly before they changed their minds.

Sixteen hours later (true, I'm including a 4 hr layover at London Heathrow and another flight to Montpellier), I put the kids on the baggage cart and whirled them around the boiling airport waiting for the luggage. To their credit, the perfectly dressed and polite natives tried their best to pretend I was nothing more than a fat American fly on the wall with two little beastie flying along side me. Frankly, I didn’t blame them: We were a mess. One son was rolling a baggage cart back and forth over his peed-dried blanket while the other was smacking the back of his brother’s head with a green goopy lollypop. At least they were quiet.

Thank God because France is the quietest country around. Even the children whispered quietly among themselves while their parents went about their business of smoking, sipping espresso and staring at us. A sudden distraction came when two burley baggage handlers broke into a huge "fight." I used quotes here because they whispered the entire time so, for all we knew they could have been asking after each other's health. Once the belt started, however, all bets were off. People stopped trying to divide their stares between the baggage handlers and us and briskly retrieved their luggage so they could hop in their convertible Jags and zip down the French Rivera with their quiet, perfectly behaved children.


After stuffing our suitcases (I know, American joke –but I had to bring diapers) into the front of the car because there was no trunk, I picked up the hand written detailed map and started journeying toward our new home for the summer. The roads in the South of France in July are like….well, you can’t really explain it. The only good thing is that the cars are so thin that when you’re parked in traffic you can check out the guy to your right and watch the couple to your left doing god knows what all at the same time. The circles are a particular treat – I found it best to just barrel in as fast as possible with my eyes shut – that way I got out sooner and didn’t remember the trauma.

The map my exchangers left was fabulous in all detail. It cross checked perfectly with the Euro Atlas my Dad had given me along with the print out from Map Quest, except for one little problem: massive amounts of construction. I also quickly found out that since most people had lived in these little towns since France was known as Gaul, they didn’t waste any money on detour signs. Everyone else knew where they were going – they lived in their great great great great grandparent’s home. Not so helpful for me or other travelers to these parts.

This was certainly one of those many moments I've had since having children when I suddenly look around and think, 'what the hell am I doing? Someone could get maimed or worse.' My boys had stopped whining and had nodded off to a coma-like sleep with the sun beating on their cherry red cheeks and sweat pouring down their two day old T-shirts. I aimed for rural roads outside of the city, hoping they’d cross back to a main highway out of town. Thankfully, we were able to get enough speed up to have wind blowing into the car for circulation. I might say something about air conditioning, or lack thereof, at this point, but I’ll save it for the house description.

After some great luck and a few very nice people pointing the way, we drove up a quiet street just two blocks from a quaint town and parked at the little stone house at the end of the cul de sac. It was more than I imagined: Lavender sat in the window box on the sill, and the stone walkway was decorated with the petals from the Azaleas and red roses that shaded the walk. The boys had stirred and were laughing quietly at a white cat sneaking up the stone wall. I felt our ‘home away from home’ had the perfect "Joss" for a great summer vacation. Only now I had to figure out how to break in because the keys I had been shipped by the owners didn’t seem to be working. C’est la vie, at least we had arrived.

REAL FACTS
homelink.org is $110 to join online. There are similar sites, but we found this one is best for reliability, breadth of choices, search engine, etc. We did a few exchanges through other sites as well and I’m waiting for the lawyer’s response to see if I can give you the details on those experiences.None of the sites, including homelink, will check references so you have to do the vetting yourself (or do nothing like we did and take your chances). You can include swap of cars or not. Some people even swap care of each other’s animals. You work with your exchangers to share information on your area like places to visit and local restaurants, customs, emergency information, etc. Even though there were some bumps along our way, we found home swapping the most convenient way to move about when you're 'traveling with small children' or untamed dogs as the case may be.

Family and vacation are two words that should never be used together at the same time: unless it’s meant as a joke. Traveling with kids on vacation does not excuse you from 3 am wake up calls. There is still someone other than your spouse crawling into your bed at night. There are still three square meals and untold number of snacks to provide. True, it may be more fun to scrub someone else's kitchen floor or vacuum sand off someone else’s couch, but let’s be frank: ‘family vacation’ is the quintessential oxymoron: like cheap tickets or simple assembly.

That being said, traveling is the one luxury I wasn’t willing to give up upon becoming a parent. I decided to just ‘tough it through’, keeping my goal in mind. We packed extra suitcases and took the kids along with us wherever we went in the world. We did no research, little planning and almost zero preparation. What we did was forge ahead and, I’m proud to say, while it wasn’t always pretty at least we survived.

If you’re the type to have a nanny for each child in tow, a ‘baby nanny’ for the baby and; a cache of people helping you travel, then please go to another blog immediately. You’ll hate what I say. To be more exact: you won’t understand it. You’ll ask yourself again and again ‘why doesn’t this poor woman just pay somebody to take care of everything and her problems will go away?’

So, I’ll explain just this one time and not mention it again: we don’t have a lot of money. I like that saying because it implies we have ‘some’ money. Actually, we don’t have ‘some’ money. More precisely, we have ‘little to no’ money but we do have credit cards. And, everyone knows that help doesn’t take credit cards. But, when they do, my problems will be solved and this discussion will duly end.

These stories are a collection of our experiences of Traveling with Small Children: the good, the bad, the ugly. I exaggerate a little for creative license; but, for the most part, everything is true. Those of you looking for hard facts: go to the end of each essay and you’ll see some information that might be more useful vs. my ranting and raving. But I don’t guarantee everything is perfectly correct. I am, after all, a bit distracted at all times and can’t keep anything straight.

I’m dedicating these stories to those of you who are in the trenches of ‘childrendom.’ Those of you who love the sound of a train leaving the station, the plane taking off, the packed car revving; yet, can’t quite figure out how to get from there to here. This is for those of you who travel with nothing but diapers packed in Sam’s Club suitcases. These stories are to encourage travelers who, in their youth thought nothing of packing a rucksack & sticking out a thumb but now feel somehow the family might not benefit from such casual planning.

I truly hope our mistakes can be educational to someone, anyone. Maybe you can use this information to avoid potholes, go around major obstacles, but still look out the window and enjoy the view. Most importantly, I hope you continue to travel with your small children and enjoy the time with your family even while on the dreaded ‘family vacation.’

Bon Voyage and remember: chewed candy in the left pocket, passports in the right – and never the two shall twain – Camille