New Hampshire, March 2011
School break loomed and the children were agitating for a vacation trip. Mrs. O and I are tired of traveling with kids. They get peevish, bored, and quarrelsome, and they never want to go to where we want to go to, such as out for a late dinner at the Brasserie Lipp in Paris followed by a stroll across the boulevard and a nightcap at Café Flore.
“A cruise ship with an indoor climbing wall!” demanded Muffin.
“Disney World, Sea World, and Hogwarts at Universal Studios!” insisted Poppet.
“We should go to Nickleodeon!” declared Buster, who gets confused about geography.
“We have Nickleodeon at home,” said Poppet, giving Mrs. O and me an idea. Home is a fashionable watering hole for the elite these days. High-powered executives brag about working from home. A stay-at-home mom is a status symbol. Home entertainment centers fill the cathedral-ceilinged great rooms of America. Why not home travel? Reservations aren’t a problem; the mortgage company has us booked for thirty years. No need to pack light; we all bring everything we own home. And meals are absolutely guaranteed to be had in a comfortable, homey atmosphere.
We lined up the children in the front hall and had them march shoeless through the door frame four or five times while emptying their pockets. “Gummi Bears are allowable only in containers of three ounces or less and must be sealed in a ziplock bag,” said Mrs. O., giving the kids a sharp frisk. Meanwhile I repeatedly droned, “Please report any suspicious objects to police or TSA representatives” and “Curbside is for active loading and unloading only, unattended cars will be ticketed and towed.”
We squeezed the kids into the third-row seat of our SUV, piling their laps with iPods, DVD players, Game Boys, and coloring books. I drove up and down our long, bumpy driveway for hours with occasional halts outside the garage for “minor maintenance delays.” Mrs. O. grudgingly passed out peanuts.
“Time zone change,” announced Mrs. O. when we were back inside. “It’s four PM. Everybody go to bed.”
In the morning we dialed the thermostat to “Florida.” The Orlando Amusement Park experience was easily evoked. Line up the kids again and leave them standing there for ages. Eventually they expect something in the way of a ride. Fortunately ours is an old house. There’s a large, loud, and scary nineteenth-century toilet in the guest room bath. Our children were greeted by big, furry, overfriendly animal characters. “Dad,” said Poppet, “those are our dogs.”
“Yes,” I said, “and you can have your picture taken with them. As for evening fireworks, don’t get your father started about Harry Reid.”
Going on a cruise with children means seasickness and sunburn. We convinced the kids to spin themselves around 100 times, then stand too close to the fireplace.
Mrs. O. emptied all the leftovers from the fridge onto the dining room table, creating a twenty-four-hour free buffet with authentic tourism-style discolored slices of lunch meat, wilted lettuce, and melted frozen yogurt. No cooking for Mom for a week!
We don’t have an indoor climbing wall, but the ascent to our second floor is steep. We put ropes and bike helmets on the kids and let them climb the stairs. “Take some laundry with you when you go.”
“Real cruise ships have hot tubs,” Muffin complained.
“Get in the water,” I said. “It’s hot, it’s a tub. What’s the problem?”
Our children turned out to be every bit as peevish, bored, and quarrelsome during home travel as they usually are when traveling. But we saved money. In fact, Mrs. O and I saved enough money to hire a very reliable, if somewhat strict, professional nanny to stay with the kids. We’ll be at the Brasserie Lipp.