But last week...like the self-sacrificing Christian I am, I ventured out once more in the name of friendship and freedom. As in "free lodging and food" freedom. An issue which I'm sure our forefathers would have included in the Constitution had there been such things as condominiums and vacation resorts in their time.
Instead of rolling down the river, this time I was at the beach. I shall not name the beach except to say that it starts with "Myrtle" and ends with...well..."Beach." I haven't written about it until now simply because
A couple of months ago, a very sweet friend of mine mentioned to me that she had an opportunity to go to the beach, but no way to get there. She sort of asked in an off-handish way if I would be interested in going...I'd just have to drive and provide the gas and she would take care of the rest. In what I can only describe as a cranial infarction, I said, "Sure! I'll go!" Obviously I had completely blocked out my previous flirtation with paralysis a few short months ago and had now opted for certain death by various and sundry means on our nations coastline.
Now I should note here that my friend and I had heretofore spent a little time together, but nothing like this. I mean, 10 hours in a car and then 4 nights together with her two littles? It had not yet been attempted. At this juncture I should also tell you that I adore her kids. She has an 8 year old boy and a 4 year old girl. In my opinion...this is the best age to take your kids anywhere.
My friend had been to the ocean before...but her kids had not. So we were both kind of pumped to see the reactions on their faces. I had mentioned to my pal that we would leave super-duper early...like 6am...(and we all know what a fan Mimi is of pre-sunrise activity) and that the kids would probably sleep most of the way there.
It was at this point when my friend patted my shoulder and got this sad, yet loving and sympathetic gleam in her eye as if to say..."Oh...you sad, strange, little woman...it's been a while since your kids were small hasn't it?" I shrugged it off as Mom-jitters. You know, the kind where you really want people to think your kids are the greatest thing since sliced bread and you're nervous and tense that what they're really gonna do is make people think that you and your husband should be henceforth banned from ever procreating ever again? Sort of like Honey Boo Boo's parents?
Yeah...Mom-jitters. Not that I've ever had them or anything. My kids were angels I tell you. ANGELS.
We got the trunk packed up in a fashion would have made R. Lee Ermey proud, got the kids buckled into their carseats and proceeded to put the pedal to the metal. Or something like that. Actually, I went the wrong way right out of the gate, but it was all good because I needed to stop at the gas station to top off the tank. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it!) We got that done and I get back in the car and I kid you not...we had come all of 2.5 miles and we needed a potty break.
Yep. It had been a while since ol' Mimi had gone on a trip with littles.
There was a Hardee's across the street from us which also happens to be the primo spot for all the local geezers to get together for breakfast and solve the world's problems. I know this because there were two of them who stared at us upon entry and exit of afore-mentioned potty break and made us feel as though we had tread carelessly on sacred ground. Like we had let the kids pee on the Lincoln Memorial or something. I waved to them as my friend shoved her kids into the back seat and we peeled out of there like two bananas. (Get it? Peeled? Bananas????)
Clearly...we were off to a super-duper start.
To Be Continued...