180 miles down, 980 to go

We have completed the first leg of our trip. Sunday morning, the kids and I drove to my in-laws' house in southern Indiana. It's the first time we've been here since my mother-in-law moved into a nursing home in February.

The drive had me thinking that those pioneer types were pretty lucky when it came to traveling. Sure, it would take them nearly a week to make the trip it took us less than four hours to drive. But there is something appealing about throwing the kids in the back of the Conestoga. Any complaints or fussiness and the kids had to walk behind the wagon or sit up front in the rain.

The first hour of our trip consisted of "Mom, my Nintendo DS won't work," "Mom, tell Annie I want to watch Twilight on her iPod, too," "Mom, I don't like this song. Can you turn the channel?"

Thank goodness for Wal-Mart, which is one advantage we have over our ancestors. We pulled in, rented a movie from the Red Box (another slight argument over which movie we'd choose), bought a cassette adapter for the computer so the sound of Spongebob Surfer Dude -- or something like that -- could be heard over the radio, and made a quick potty break.

That seemed to quiet the troops who were content to watch Spongebob the rest of the trip, sucking down juice boxes and munching on pretzels that I'd packed.

When we arrived at my in-laws, a few things had changed. The boys ran straight up to the Family Suite -- the big room we all share when we visit -- looking for their presents. GoGo always had presents sitting on the end of the beds. Well, this is Poppo's territory now and Poppo doesn't do "glad you're here" presents. He did, however, have several bags of books and art supplies he'd cleaned out of various closets in the house and offered those to us. The boys thought those were close enough to presents and readily accepted them.

A bit later, we went to the nursing home to see my mother-in-law. She seemed very tired, but in general, good. She was sitting in a recliner, which left her wheelchair open, which invited arguments about who got to sit in it. So every five minutes, I'd interrupt the conversation and yell "Switch," so each of the three could have a turn.

After a pizza dinner that we carried in, we came home and I immediately put Robbie in the bath, then straight to bed because quite frankly he was getting on my last nerve. He's had quite a difficult week and a prescription for early bedtime seemed in order.

The other thing that has changed here is the temperature. I am in the habit of packing warm jammies when we stay with my in-laws because my mother-in-law likes to channel her inner Eskimo and keeps the house quite cold. Well, my father-in-law controls the thermostat now. And so I am sitting in my flannel jammies sweating buckets. Even my boobs are sweating, which is as disgusting as it sounds. And I can't find the thermostat to turn down the temperature.

If I were a pioneer woman, I'd be sleeping outside and would just have to throw off the covers for an instant late-March cool down. Maybe I'll go open the freezer and stick my head in it.

Tomorrow after breakfast, we're headed to my brother's house in Atlanta. My father-in-law has set his alarm for 5:30am to get up and fix pancakes -- a favorite of the kids. I've told him that my goal is to leave by 9am. But he insists we might want to leave earlier. Think he's anxious for his solitude again?!

Accidentally on purpose?

My mother-in-law often tells the story of how they were on vacation when Mike was young and her turn at the wheel happened to come up as they were driving through the mountains of West Virginia. She takes great delight in recalling how my father-in-law Tom and the boys were cowering in fear when she came perilously close to the edge where the road dropped off into nothingness and how there was nowhere to pull over and change drivers for 20 miles.

Whenever she tells the story, she happily reports that those were the last 20 miles she ever had to drive on a vacation. So happily, in fact, that I sometimes wonder if she eeked her way to the edge of the road a little bit (subliminally perhaps?) on purpose.

She also tells how the last time she had to pick up an iron was when she scorched my father-in-law's navy whites in the early years of their now 40+ year marriage. A fortuitous accident, I wonder? Or something more deliberate?

The same question came to my mind today when Charlie was in charge of vacuuming the basement carpet.

Now, I know that Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. But in our house, Saturday is more our day of rest (ok, play) and Sunday is a day of "Crap! We have a ton of work to do before we go back to work/school tomorrow."

So after church today, we came home and made the assignments. Annie and Robbie were to pick up the family room, while Charlie was on basement duty. After he'd adequately picked up the clutter in the room, he was ready to vacuum. I heard the sweeper turn on and run for a few minutes. Then I heard a bit of a strangling sound and then "Mom! I need help."

I ran downstairs to find that Charlie run the sweeper over a loose end of the carpet, which was quickly sucked up and wrapped around the bristle roller. By the time I got down there, he had pulled out about three inches of fibers that had once been the carpet.

After assessing the situation, I unplugged the vac and sent Charlie to fetch the scissors. Fifteen minutes later, I had freed the vacuum and had enough carpet threads to knit a sweater for the cat.

As I stood the vacuum upright again, Charlie (not so) innocently asked "Should I finish sweeping, Mom, or should you do it so I don't accidentally get it jammed again?"

Accidentally? I think Charlie's been talking to his grandmother.