Travel Day Sponsored by Satan

Here's what the day looked like. This is the short version, the long version would make you cry.

Got denied from self-check in, and sent to line with a million bazillion people.

Missed 9:30am flight while standing in line with a million bazillion people.

Ended up next to people with resident alien ID cards who are trying to send two unaccompanied minors to a foreign country, with no return ticket, to a person who is not a parent. (Also? They can't speak English.) And our agent has to help their agent because this is the most impossible scenario ever.

Spent an eternity at the counter because our agent can't figure out how to get us on another flight and needs at least three different supervisors to help.

Asked agent if Jeremy could stay with her while I take kids (who are beyond losing it, have been in line over an hour) to the play area. She says yes, but play area is closed. (WTF, LOGAN?)

Got tickets for next flight... leaving at 4:30pm.

Took kids to playground at Airport T stop to avoid spending 5 hours in Logan, and all suffer heat stroke in the most disgusting heat wave in anyone's memory.

Found a water play area but Savannah refused to go in and big kids splashing made Chelsea cry.

Back to Logan, (Thank you, Air Conditioning!) go through security and I get pulled aside for special screening. Culprit? The bottle of sunscreen we bought at the heat stroke playground. (Screw you, heat wave. Why you gotta mess with me twice?)

Got on the plane and despite Jeremy and Chelsea's TVs not working (WTF, Jet Blue? Isn't that the whole point of you?) and Savannah not sleeping (WTF, Two-year-old? How is that even POSSIBLE?) we made it to San Diego....

And our luggage did not. OF COURSE IT DID NOT.

AND NEITHER DID OUR CARSEATS. (OMGWTFBBQ... *head explodes*)

I was very proud of myself all day for being very calm about the whole missing our flight and spending the day in the ridiculous heat and baby not napping thing. But the luggage and carseats not being there was more than I could handle.

So yeah. The lady in the Land o' Lost Luggage gave us some loaner carseats so at least we could leave the airport. And a couple of $30 vouchers from JetBlue. HAHAHA.

But we're home. We got our luggage and carseats yesterday. Everybody is (roughly) back on West Coast time.

I hate that after our wonderful, amazing month in New England this is our last memory from the trip.

Tomorrow (hah! tomorrow!) I'll post some pics and happier memories and try to make THAT the last word on Massachusetts 2010. Because THIS? Deserves to be forgotten.
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Pick Those Apples, Wait, Strawberries, At Connor's Farm

We made it to Massachusetts! It is very surreal being back here after being away for a year. Almost as weird as moving to San Diego after growing up there and being away for a decade. Almost.

Friends invited us to go strawberry picking at Connor's Farm. I've mentioned it here before.

Chelsea loves strawberries. Couldn't keep her basket full because she either ate them right out of the basket or ate them before she even bothered to put them in the basket.

Savannah? Not so much.


Apparently "strawberry-picking" and "bogey-picking" are interchangeable to her. She could easily keep her basket full, because she would never let any fruit pass her lips. Delicious, ripe, fresh-off-the-plant strawberries included. (Savannah = strangest kid ever.)


One thing the sisters could agree on was the sandbox, er, DIRTbox just outside the little farm store. Dirt! It's like a baby-sitter, only cheaper.

And you'll never guess who we found across the street!

Yup, Savannah's favorite! What's a llama doing out in the middle of Danvers, anyway? Oh, chillin' with his homies, the farm donkeys. You know, the usual.
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Like, Totally, Vocabulary. Y'know?

On the scale of "Things You Don't Expect Your Preschooler to Say" these are pretty mundane.

Chelsea's not saying sh*t (like one little friend of hers recently did) or even "cruise ship!" as another one famously swore. But I guess I still need to be careful how I speak around her, lest she start sounding like, well, like me.

Here are some recent gems:

"Seriously, Mommy, seriously! We NEED to do this now!"

"Mommy, I'm not actually going to do it!"

(and in response to the question, "Why did you take your pants off outside?")

"Oh, I just randomly did it!"

Seriously, actually, and randomly.

Yep, that's seriously what I actually sound like when I randomly babble at my kids.
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Missing the Point

Chelsea, Savannah, and I go to the weekly open gym at our YMCA. It's just 45 minutes of free play time on the gymnastics equipment. The kids love it, obviously, but I think the moms might love it more. Everyone is so busy flopping into the marshmallow pit, bouncing on the trampoline, or swinging on a giant rope, they don't have time to whine or fight. Very much. It burns up a lot of that toddler/preschooler energy, too, so there's hope for naptime as well. Win-win!

Last week, we got a little note from one of the instructors asking for our feedback about the timing of open gym during Y Camp season this summer.

I discussed the options they gave us with Chelsea, to see what she thought.

Me: The first choice is to move the start time to 8:15am, and we'd have the gym all to ourselves. Or, it could start at 8:30, and we'd have to share the gym with the kids in Gymnastics Camp for the last 15 minutes. OR, it could start the same time it does now, at 9am, and we'd share the gym the whole time. What do you think would be the best?

Chelsea: I want to go to Gymnastics Camp!
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Workin' for a Living... Room

Becoming a new homeowner is kind of like becoming a new parent.

When you become a parent, you instantly take on dozens of other new jobs that you didn't prepare for. And that, sadly, you will not be paid for. You'll be a:

Nurse.

Chauffeur.

Nutritionist.

Teacher.

Child Psychologist.

Similarly, when you get your first house, you get a bunch of new jobs. A bunch of new, labor-intensive, Home Depot stock-raising, unpaid jobs, like:

Landscaper.

Plumber.

Spa cleaner. (If you're lucky? I think?)

Painter.

Carpenter.

Luckily for me, Jeremy got stuck with most of those jobs. Although I did punch the clock as Painter for a little while there. And we called in the big guns (aka Grandpa) for the difficult job of Electrician. I mostly got the awesomely easy job of Box Un-taper. And Children's Interior Designer. And Kitchen Organizer. Not too bad, as a whole. Guess I'll go update my resume now. Or not.
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Dear Monday

Dear Monday, April 19, 2001:

You totally sucked.

You started out kind of exciting, with a trip to the escrow office to sign loan papers. Then, someone popped in and said, "Oh, guess what? You're closing today! And also, your loan lock expires at 5pm so you better get all your money into escrow in... say... now? kthxbye!"

And then the shizzle totally hit the fizzle.

I spent over two hours trying to get Bank of America to wire my money into my escrow account. (On a related note: Dear BofA, You also totally suck.) Two. Hours. Three times through the automated phone system. Four customer service reps. One massive pile of suckitude.

Jeremy spent what morphed into a day and a half trying to get another portion of the money wired and in the end felt as though he'd been put through Count Rugen's Machine. "I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five but I really don't know what that would do to you."

Once it was finally past 5pm and there was nothing more we could do involving financial transactions, I thought you might stop sucking a little bit.

But no.

Then you handed me a four-year-old with a raging earache. An earache so painful that it was impervious to Tylenol, mother-cuddling, and Barney DVDs. And of course, as Chelsea writhed and howled in my arms, Savannah voiced her protest as only a two-year-old can: loudly.

Monday, you are already a sucky day in general. What are your redeeming qualities, exactly? (Psssst: You don't have any.)

So what business do you have adding extreme financial anxiety and sick children to your repertoire?

None, Monday. You have none.

I'm giving you six days to clean up your act, motherflipper.

No love,
Heidi
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Driving Miss Fussy

It's almost sundown. I'm driving along, westbound, Savannah in the backseat.

The sun is right in our eyes.

She whines: "No 'un! No 'un! No 'un!!!"

I say, mostly calmly: "Close your eyes."

Her, whinier: "No 'un! Nooooo 'unnnnnnn!!!"

Me, yellier: "Turn your head!"

Her, yellier to match: "NO 'UN!"

Me, extra yelly: "Hold up a book in front of your face!"

Her, super yelly: "NOOOOOO 'UNNNNNN!"

On and on and on.

We come to a stop light. The sun is blocked by a tree. I am ready for relief from the yelling.

Her: "Where 'un? Where 'un go? Where 'un?! WHERE 'UN GO!?"

Me, pointing: "It's behind that tree."

Her, whiny: "Where? Where 'un? Where 'un go?"

Me, driving again: "There it is."

Her, the rest of the drive home: "No 'un! ... Where 'un go? ... No 'un! ... Where 'un go? NO 'UN! WHERE 'UN GO?!!!" She whines it, cries it, yells it, tries out a gravelly-devil voice version of it. She even works on the "s" sound, "No zhun! Where jun go?"

I give up talking.

We turn the into our complex. She finally stops whining. Her eyes go wide.

Her, smiling: "BUNNY! I see it! Bunny hopping. Hopping! Hopping everywhere!"

She bounces her two chubby little fingers in the air: "Hopping! Hopping!"

Then just one finger: "One bunny. I see it. Hop away. Hopping everywhere!"

Sun? What sun?
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