Of course, there's not 67 parts to our beach vacation memories. I'm just joshin'. I think I can really only stretch it out to 45 parts. I don't want to be obnoxious.
Seriously, I took close to 200 pictures: "Look at mommy and smile! Stop squinting. I don't care if the sun is in your eyes, SMILE! I mean it. Just look happy for one more second." Just a little family enjoyment at the beach....
On the way down to Florida, we decided to break up the very long drive by stopping at a small amusement park. The children were getting somewhat antsy, and my anxiety levels were at an all-time high as I recognized a few things about my husband's driving never witnessed before in our thirteen years of marriage:
1. He drives with both feet. As in the right foot is for the gas pedal and the left foot is for the brake. WHAT?!? I glanced at him one time, during stop and go traffic, and noticed that it appeared as though he were clogging in the floorboard, using all his feet with all the pedals. Mercy.
Clearly John's Driver's Ed teacher in high school was hitting the sauce when she taught this erroneous, albeit entertaining, method of driving. John claims the habit comes from driving a tractor on his family farm. Whatever the reason - alcohol impaired teachers or John Deer thingys - blame is unimportant at this time. Just make sure you give our black Expedition a wide circle of space when you see us coming.
2. He drives with his wrist. You know, where the wrist hangs oh so casually over the top of the steering wheel. Men can get away with this driving in town, women cannot. See, we need a firm grip on the wheel so we can reach around and snatch the leg of a misbehaving child in the backseat or pick up the dropped stuffed animal that is causing the unnecessary monkey fit.
Hear me clearly when I say I cannot support wrist driving on the VERY FAST MOVING INTERSTATE. It makes me nervous and produces the aforementioned anxiety because tell me what kind of reflexes you can expect from your WRIST BONES? Cat like? I think not.
To give credit where credit is due, John manged to direct us to our destination without any auto mishaps, despite using improper form and dancing all the way across the state line.
You're the best John. (Or is it too late to give you props?)
We pulled up to the amusement park both delighted and a little worried to see the parking lot half empty.
(I had a brief flash of horror to the scene in Family Vacation where Chevy Chase FINALLY makes it to Wally World only to find it closed. A break-in and arrest ensue, all of which we would not have time for if we were now experiencing the same situation. Plus, orange is not a flattering color for me)
Fortunately, the park was open and almost empty of people. Unfortunately, we found that the emptiness could be explained by the 150 degree weather that caused hot steam to rise from the pavement. Things like shady trees and covered pavilions had not been considered in the initial planning stages of this fine development which explained the very little clothing the few other attendees were wearing. Think tops - strapless, halter, and tube. (Why will the tube top not die?) It reminded me of a few of my students.
It was hot. By the end of the day, our clothes were drenched with sweat and we smelled worse than the baby billy goats in the petting zoo. But it was so much fun. We squealed, and we laughed, and we sweated to our full heart's content. The many roller coasters with high speed turns and upside down twirls did things to my stomach that it hasn't felt since I was 8 weeks pregnant or the time I ate too many Cheetos when I was eight years old. The children and I held on for dear life, knuckles white from clenching the safety bars in front of us with a grip we hoped would defy gravity.
John held on, of course, with wrist bones dangling oh so casually over the safety bar, feet dancing over non-existant pedals.
Tomorrow, I might actually talk about our beach trip.....