Friday evening started our Christmas “be-cation,” as Ian calls it. I had the car ready to go when Brian arrived home early from work, so we hit the road. That’s one of Ian’s favorite new phrases, by the way. He’ll tell me, “No, I do not want to go home. I just want to hit the road.” We drove until 8 or 9 and chose a Hampton Inn, predominantly for the free breakfast and inside doors.
Isaac thought the room was “yooper” (super). Ian was impressed too. They tried all the doors and drawers and buttons they could find. I started a bath for the boys while Brian dashed to the car for a few things. As I collected the boys’ pajamas, they tossed two of our four towels into the tub and thrashed the bathwater with them. Brian returned and helped restore order as I milled around in a state of near-zombification. We each grabbed a hyperchild and melted into our respective Queen beds.
The next morning, I went downstairs and assembled an embarrassingly tall stack of scrumptious Belgian waffles and loaded my hoodie pockets with peanut butter and syrup. From the looks (and personal space) I was getting, it seemed no one wanted to be in the path of a very pregnant woman on a breakfast rampage. One person was brave enough to comment on how many people I must be feeding. Nevermind them, I thought. My boys will love me for this. I sent Brian down for the fruit and drinks as the boys awakened and donned their syrupy grins. They kicked back like little princes with their catered mini-buffet.
Isaac pointed to the “yi-yoar” (dinosaur) on his shirt and roared. That apparently triggered a recollection of Ian’s dream because he told me a dinosaur chomped him, but “Mommy fwat (swat) his tail and the dinosaur ran away.”
Back on the freeway, we were slowly passing a semi truck. Isaac observed, saying in his toughest voice, “Big truck. Big truck. Big…where? (as it rolled out of sight)” One of their snacks was little natural fruit bits. I asked Ian if he wanted some Fruit Nuggets and halfway through his bag he told me he likes his “chicken fruit.” Ok, no more Happy Meals. Somehow, he also decided that the blueberry mini-muffins I brought were called “muffin dogs.”
For what felt like the 20th time, we pulled into a rest stop with my bladder in a panic. I was hoping Brian would pull up and off-road for a bit for a smooth door-to-door potty transfer, but instead parked withing binocular distance of the restrooms. I chastised him and his reply was, “I thought I’d encourage you to walk a bit.” The guy was just trying to be compliant with my Dr.’s orders that I stop every couple hours to stretch my legs, but in my urine-laden delirium, I griped all the painful way to the ladies’ room about him wanting to encourage me to unleash my burden all across the parking lot. Once again, the bladder muscles prevailed without incident and I returned to my human form.
The trip, as far as how the boys handled it, was extremely easy. They’ve become great little road-trippers. About and hour from our destination, we started hyping them up for our arrival at Grammy’s house. I knew Ian remembered her when he proclaimed, “Grammy has a muffin for me!” My toddler-nutrition alarms cringed a little, but I settled back in my heated seat, grateful to not be picking up toys all day, and thought to myself, ‘Tis the season!