Let's BLOG I Made Them Believe in Fairies

It was magic.  

It's always been about magic.

My womb grew but a few months, but a few times, and by the wake of Spring  and the dawn of Fall, two darling girls appeared. 

Since infancy I made them believe in angels and that I was to be their first.  I would vow to protect them.  Promise to love them and my wings would be shelter in the sunlight and wind.

I walked them around the backyard.  Pointed out each buzzing bee and butterfly wing.  I made them believe in earth and all its promise of birth and life.  

Every dandelion would be chance to a wish.  Every ladybug would grant good luck.  And beneath each and every mushroom lived a fairy.  

I made them believe in fairies.

We'd walk paths through a forest, slipping in and out of trees, searching for wings.  Searching for a whisper, a hush, and a sprinkle of twinkly dust.

As they grew I told them about Santa.  The Easter Bunny.  The fairy that would collect their first teeth.

We looked for lights in the dark sky.  I made them believe each one a sleigh guided by reindeer.  

We left a carrot and by morning it had been replaced with a basket of treats and a hunt for treasures.

I made them believe in fairies.

Still growing I made them believe in me and their daddy.  That our magic, our destiny would be to guide them, walk beside them, and sometimes behind them to make their little girl dreams come true.

I told them about God.  And his angels. And made them believe that when they reached a bridge and a mean and selfish troll commanded they turn back, they could believe that He would be there inside them and help them across.

I made them believe in fairies.

Those two darling girls are eight and ten. That magic is still alive.

We make wishes on eyelashes and falling stars.  We leave cookies and milk and notes beside the tree.  Our hands still wake to pennies under a pillow and we take care of where we step on the forest ground.  

I made them believe in fairies.  So someday they could fly without wings.   

Water Slide / Water Slip

There was a little mishap at Water Country. Apparently, some old lady fell on her ass at Thunder Falls in front of at least a few dozen people. Her foot slipped right under her trying to get on the float. She's bruised and bleeding all over the place but I think her pride was hurt most of all.  She was bleeding so bad she had to go to First Aid and random little boys were pointing at her in the park. it was bullying. There's no anti-tolerance policy at Water Country.

 Her very own sisters and at least 9 nieces and nephews, her very own FLESH and BLOOD, didn't even check to see if she was okay. They were too busy hyperventilating in laughter and pointing at her while she recovered.  I even heard the lifeguard was of no help. There he was, all of seventeen years old, in his little red lifeguard shorts and his little red lifeguard visor and you know what he did? He laughed with all of them. In between choking he tried to give the old lady his hand and asked, "are you okay?" but then started laughing again. Someone should report that. Upon splashing into the pool at the conclusion of the ride, where her 35 year old sister was still laughing uncontrollably, all the nieces and nephews, the ones she spoils and loves so very much were all gathered in a group still laughing their asses off. It must have been humiliating for her.
Worst part is, she wore a bathing suit identical to her own 64 year old mother's.

Let's BLOG Flip Flops on Fire

Grocery shopping.  Got to LOVE it.  Like an impacted molar.

But alas.  If I didn't hit Market Basket in the next 24 hours, my family will submit to knawing on the cabinetry.  So off I went.

In my flip flops.

The same flip flops I wore during a week long trip to Disney. When it was close to boiling point and the sweat from every last gland in my body dripped down my legs and pooled beneath my feet.

Still. They are fairly new flip flops. And quite pretty.

So I wore them to Market Basket.

I was en route, about halfway there when I smelled a certain distinctive stench.  Something between mildew and a tub of Gorgonzola cheese.

It was then I was reminded of the flip flops.

I hadn't washed them since the trip.  And now my feet were consumed of some sort of chemically  rank reaction.

But it was too late to turn back.  I proceeded to Market Basket.  Hoping that no one else would have to bear the wrath of my smelly ass feet.

Course there I had only made it down aisle TWO.  Aisle TWO I tell you when a little four year old boy, all of three feet tall made a special announcement.  "AW, what's that s m e l l l l l l l l l l?"  Being that he was all of four years of age and his mommy being depressed about being at Market Basket when she could be floating along some relaxing riverbank somewhere with an orange dream bar in hand, the boy was ignored.  Except by me.

I acknowledged that smell.  I knew it had to be my feet.

Sure I hashed out some other explanation for the smell like it was the hot roasted rotisserie chicken in my cart or perhaps the old balding man in the motorized cart blazed his saddle between the pork and beans.

I got to get me one of those.  Carts I mean.

With a list two hundred items long and it being past supper time, I shoved ahead, smelly ass shoes and all.  But at least they looked pretty.  And the little boy could go back to that thing called INHALING.

Two more aisles down, the cereal department, Little Boy arrives with family in tote.

I shuffle along but can't avoid the next announcement.  Bolder than the last one.

"AW,  NOT THAT SMELL AAAAAGAIN..."  This time Little Boy smacks his forehead in disbelief and stumbles around.  Either trying to track the smell or find a device to resuscitate his lungs.

Folks, I was raised to be a LADY.  So the admittance of my smelly ass feet is not easy for me.  But I am also honest and forthright.  That boy was right ON.  There WAS a smell.  And it was most definitely MY flip flops. 

In fact, I am somewhat of a child expert so when I heard that last outcry, I knew its translation. I must also point out that children of this size haven't yet gained a vocabulary of four letter words that we adults use to express how we are feeling at any given moment.  Especially when you're all of three feet tall and someone has smelly ass shoes and you are in a grocery store.  AW, NOT THAT SMELL AGAIN translates to:  $@%! Mom, Dad, what the $@%! kind of %@&*%! smell is that? Why do you always %@&*%! make me come to this store? $@%!" 

I did the only thing I could do.  ABORT.  I exited the aisle leaving only a faint but deadly trail of smelly ass feet behind me and sought out the nearest personal hygiene aisle.

I found myself a can of  Men's SPORT GUARD 250 Super-maxi strength aerosol deodorant and sprayed that mother all over my smelly ass flip flops.  Right there in aisle 11. One foot at a time.

I continued on with the grocery shopping, and my sulking, and eventually checking out.  That poor little boy was now at a different registry aisle begging for candy.  I should have bought him a lollipop at least.  But I feared if I take one more step toward him he may just take his own life before he could say $@%!

half-a-mom

Let's BLOG How NOT to Plan Disney

You got one shot.  One ticket to Disney for seven.  Five nights. Six days.  Non-stop Mickey and Minnie magic making all your dreams come true and emptying your wallet as fast as you can say Jiminy Cricket!

I'm no worldly traveler.  And I'm no frequent flyer either.  My feet are best planted on this New Hampshire dirt walking through the woods on a snowy evening. 

So rather than advise you HOW to plan and give you all these fabulous tips worthy of Pintrest's Pinner of the Year award, I'll just tell you how NOT to plan Disney.  And leave it at that.

 1. Don't plan the Disney trip for the end of flipping June.  Unless you feel like frying sunny side-up with a side of  SWEAT from your EYEBALL go anytime, any season BUT June. I literally steamrolled myself  with sunblock thinking that hot Floridian sun had no chance of getting in without a passport, and I was still fifty shades of lobster. It was somewhere between Fantasyland and the Little Mermaid ride that children started swooning me asking for my autograph. Something about a guy named Sebastian?  Not my fault.  I sweat that SPF 2025 off just standing in Security Check.  Ironically, you could roast a small cornish hen for four while waiting in the seventeen hour lines.

  

2. Don't overestimate your poor meal planning expertise either.  Because it'll be the first day in Florida.  En route to Sea World.  You woke up early and made a whole backpack of sandwiches, fruit, and drinks.  It'll be RIGHT after you purchase your tickets, and RIGHT before the Shamu show when the Official Seaworld Backpack Inspector will empty that backpack right into the garbage can.  No worry, though.  Bring along the auntie, the same one that tore up the basketball court like a one woman torpedo, and she will go Shaq all over that can to salvage  a few peanut butters and jellies for her family.

3.  Forget about the little outfits.  You know, the new clothes, a few tops, your kids' matching sundresses.  You just want comfort.  At one point you will be swimming in three kinds of something: Shamu spit,  sweat, and torrential rain debris.  Anyone visiting Disney should just be naked in a poncho.

 4. You can fill that backpack, purse, or stroller with a Polar Spring factory of water, but when it's 112 degrees outside and you're sweating your ass off, it doesn't matter what frozen ass treat they have in those carts, you're buying.  It could be a frozen radish on a stick.  You're buying.  A slushie can of albacore tuna, you're buying.  If that cart has something with shaved, slushed, or frozen ANYTHING in it, even if it's 2.3 ounces, even if the Cart Boy says, "that'll be $27.50 each," when you're as hot as hell, you'll say, "I'll take FOUR!"

5.  Transportation.  Have it.  Plan it.  BE it.  We planned on having FREE transportation.  A shuttle service we saw in our resort brochure stated "PAID SHUTTLE SERVICE."  We assumed that meant FREE and ended up stranded come first day of Disney.  After a 'slight' altercation with a front desk concierge that fancied talking in circles at 110 miles per hour, we committed to a taxi service.  It was more like hooking up with a burnt out valet hippie from Hawaii 5-0.  He was the best money for your buck really.  At least that's what the local resort prostitutes said.

6. Autographs.  You'll buy the book.  At the Disney Store of course.  It'll be like 25, 30 pages or so, a page for each character at Disney.  Suddenly, it's Day Four of your trip, that book will be blank, and you're so desperate you'd take anybody's autograph.  Even one of Ariel's twelve sisters, you know, with the knee-length hair and absurdly huge cleavage that no one seems to say anything about, or the guy with knickers on the roof with Mary Poppins.  If you don't feel like waiting an hour and a half for a Disney character autograph, that book is going home with nothing but a signature from a trolley attendant wearing Mickey ears. 

7. Erase the idea that you are going to make some second honeymoon out of this Disney trip. Especially if you bring two kids, two nieces, and an auntie with you. It won't matter if you are on vacation.  Or that there is a four person hot tub with bubbly jets right there in your master bedroom. There will be NO action in Disney.  Except for when you try the wave pool at Typhoon Lagoon.  That ten foot wave will make a Pinocchio out of any man when you come barreling toward him, arms thrashing, legs straddling, coming up for air.  Strangely as I was leaving, I was asked many times where I was from.  Those tourists are very friendly.

8. Shoes.  For Pluto's sake, WEAR FLIP FLOPS.  Sure.  You got forty seven miles to walk in five days and normally sneakers would be the sensible choice.  But unless you want blisters or your feet to ACTUALLY smoke at the heel, wear flip flops. Let those feet breathe.  Just be sure to fumigate them in boiled lye once you return home.

9. The rollercoasters. EVERYBODY but your mother will tell you "you have to ride the rollercoasters!"  You got the Kraken, the Mantra, the Hulk, Space Mountain, The Mummy, rollercoasters that will actually state "rides at turbulent speed" "strobe lighting" and "sudden drops and turns in the dark."  They might as well say "YOU ARE IN IMMINENT DANGER OF DEATH." Once you've sat in that line for 75 minutes, sweating and listening to your kids fight about the last purple skittle in your backpack, you're IN.  Your seatbelt is ON and you are going for a ride to the depths of HELL and back again and the only thing that's keeping your skull on your spine is a four inch wide velcro strap.  Refrain from eating any substance that requires swallowing before a ride on a Disney rollercoaster.  Unless you don't mind smelling of yesterday's chicken fajita with a side of chili.

and 10. NEVER be late for a plane.  Even if your valet hippie has you an hour and a half late. Or there's an accident on the freeway.  Or you just DIED on a Disney rollercoaster.  Be on TIME for the plane and sit your dead ass carcass down with your kids before take-off.  Enough said.  And have a magical time in Disney!

WATCHING GIRLS GROW UP.

I always wanted to have a son. Mostly because I wanted to teach him to play sports and maybe even live vicariously through him like everybody else gets to do.  But when my wife and I had trouble having kids at first, I just wanted a healthy baby. After being blessed with my second daughter, I got the hint.  I'm not having any sons so be the best father possible to those little girls.  I now have decided that having daughters isn't so bad, I still get hugs and kisses and an occasional snuggle. Try doing that with you 10 year old son, without child services knocking at your door.   And, to my delight, they both are into sports.  the 10 year old is into basketball and softball and even made an all-star team. The 8 year old is into softball, cheerleading and gymnastics.  Both are tremendous students (they take after their Mom) and both are great kids and loyal friends.  I count my blessings everyday I have these two little miracles in my life.  I often tell my 8 year old "You're not allowed to get married, you have to stay with me forever." and she always giggles and kisses me.  Yesterday was different.  We were in the pool and I said "You're not allowed to get married, you have to stay with me forever."  She giggled and then said "well, unless you like the guy" I laughed, but died a little inside. My baby was growing up and someday there will be some "GUY".  All I can say is, may God have mercy on that "GUY".

DADX2

Let's BLOG "First Come, First Serve" The New Generation

Times are a' changing.  This I know.  I hold onto what little girl values I have and hold onto them tight because in today's world those morals are being replaced with self worth.  Self-indulgence.  And a pile of possessions.

Maybe you've heard these quotes:

You have to do what makes YOU happy.

YOU come first.

Or maybe you've seen a child sporting this shirt around town:

That shirt might even be all bedazzled up with neon brights and glitter galore.  Not just to make it more appealing on the store rack, but to make that quote be the first thing you see walking down that hallway.

More and more our generation is all about 'first come, first serve. ' That being OURSELVES.

Used to be "ladies first" and eventually "women and children" first.

Now it's most likely for he, himself, and him.

There's hardly a door open for anyone else.  Hardly an 'excuse me' or 'pardon me' when you're being pushed or shoved down an aisle or sidewalk.  And I can't remember the last time a man sitting in a pew at a church has ever offered their seat to a woman.  I've even seen men stretch their arms out as far left and right as possible and behind them, stands a pregant or elderly woman.

Why it's FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE. It doesn't matter that that elderly woman with the cane took some extra time to arrive at the church.  Her eyes don't work as well as they used to and those streets are dark.  It doesn't matter that the pregnant woman has two other children at home and had to bundle them up on Christmas Eve and strap them in their car seats in the snow.  It's FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE and if that man found his family a seat and there's room for his two teenage sons, they OWN that pew and the only thing they are moving for is to receive communion - the body of Christ, that is.  The acceptance that you are willing to accept Christ in your heart and live through him.

It's the FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE generation.

Watch a line at an amusement park, a snack bar, or a ticket line.  Watch how many people CUT a line and give the excuse that they are "joining their family."  And in joining their family, they bring along a crew of five or more people.  If their family arrived FIRST, the latecomers believe they have the right to be SERVED FIRST as well.


Watch those crowds on Black Friday.  Someone would just assume stampeding through a crowd, possibly trampling over one another just to be FIRST for that new gadget or twelve foot long flatscreen television.  No different than the brides steam rolling one another at a Filene's Basement for that discounted dress or the maul of mothers that become female wrestlers when those Cabbage Patch dolls hit the shelf.  Dolls have changed but those moms are still alive and thriving.

It's FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE and you best have on your running shoes.

We don't want to face it because we all know it's NOT what we truly want for our children.  We fear it.  But we as a generation fear worse that we can't CHANGE it, so instead of setting an example, we teach our children COPING strategies to deal with society and its impulsive ways.  It's like we know we are waging war and we are training little soldiers to succeed in the Battlefield of Greed.

It's not always that evident, but look for the symptoms:

It's Field Trip time, and the first parents to sign up, get to go. 

It's a movie premiere and someone has saved an entire row for late arrivals.  Might as well share the FIRST SERVING if you send someone ahead.  Even if that someone has no other responsibilities but their own.

Flyers and contests that state "the first 100 customers..."

First come, first serve is not just a trend.  It's a ICON.  

Whether it's an airline's policy to not sit small children with their parents because they weren't there first or those flight ticket prices going up the later you buy, it's still FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

There are times that call for a race.  There are times when someone MUST come in first.  An Olympic track event, a sports championship, a job interview.  But even their race was a JOURNEY.  That trophy did not come fast.  It came STEADY.

What makes us separate from other mammals is our cognitive thinking.  If we all lived the first come, first serve we are no different than other species.

 If we don't start serving only those that come first and giving them their fill and more, there will be no second, third or tenth place.  Our children will learn you must be FIRST to succeed.  You must be FIRST. Not hardworking or patient or even responsible.  Just be FAST.  Because in today's world, there's no time for customer service.  It's a SELF SERVE kind of world.

For those of you opening a door, sharing a seat, offering someone help up an icy staircase instead of getting inside first, may your children grow up to be as SELFLESS as you are.  Let them come in second.  Or sixty-third for that matter. Finishing last to let someone go ahead won't always get you the best serving.  It won't even get them FIRST PLACE.  But it will absolutely make them FIRST CLASS.  

Let's BLOG "No Room at the Inn"

It was just a few days ago, I was standing hand in hand with my two daughters right there in front of the Magic Kingdom.   The song “When You Wish Upon a Star” enveloped us.  I held those two little ones so tightly, believing in every word.  

In that moment  I was so overwhelmed with love for them I made a promise.  I would stop at nothing to make their fairytale dreams come true.

Now we stand three days later.  Our flight home.  What happened on that ride was a disgrace to all mankind. 

With the lyrics “when your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme” and “fate is kind, she brings to those who love” still ringing my ears, I sat on the flight torn.  The magic of Disney still strong in our hearts and memory, I watched in horror as the scene unfolded.  And what replaced the grace of Cinderella and the innocence of children everywhere was nothing but villians of the worst kind.

Our flight was to leave at 8:10pm.  We scheduled our taxi ride for 6:30pm.  He arrived at 7:20.  As we ran to bag check-in, carry-on inspection and gate 104, we were sweating it out, but since we had four children with us, I sang the tune of ‘Run Run Rudolph’ to the them, reminding them of the scene in Home Alone when they were running to catch a flight.  The kids joined in as we made a mad dash to the plane.

Moments before we reached security, an announcement came on: Flight to Manchester last boarding.  Attention to Fay Family of Four and Other Family of Three! Last call!" That’s how close we were to takeoff! We got our own sendoff.

Upon entering the plane, to no surprise, the plane was full.  Not just full,not just too capacity, but actually splitting at the seams. 

And there we were, one dad and two moms with two eight year olds, one ten year old, and a fourteen year old.  This would be one of their first flights ever.  

We walked the plank to Captain Hook’s island at that moment, finding seven seats left on the plane.  Just enough for our group.  But they were all in separate rows and aisles, some as far as 10 rows apart.

The flight attendants were of no help.  They saw us struggling to find seats and ignored our plea.  I informed the first attendant that there were no seats together and we had small children.  She said we would have to take our seats anyhow and make do.  I told her that it would be alright to separate the adults but that the children would need to ride near an adult.   

She refused to help and sent us to the back of the plane to another attendant.  One with a microphone.  Nevertheless, speaker in hand, she didn’t make her move.  That’s when I stepped in.   Right as they were instructing us to use their safety devices and our little girls began to cry.

I made a mother’s plea to the passengers, holding back my tears. “Could anyone please spare a seat so that we can sit near our children? They are young and new riders.  Can anyone help?”

Silence.

I know, you’re probably trembling right about now.  That’d be the DISGUST you have in mankind right now. I’m talking young teenagers, couples, even grandparents.  There were 100 passengers aboard and NOT one got up and volunteered.

NOT one even made eye contact with me.

An awkward silent moment passed and my eight year old squeezed under my arm, my ten year old started biting her nails to hide her tears.

I asked the attendant to help once again and she said, in a rather rude tone, “I can’t help you, SHE is supposed to up there.”

I explained that SHE had sent us to her and we needed support NOW.

Out of not kindness, but out of frustration because the plane was trying to leave, she announced over the loudspeaker, “excuse me ladies and gentlemen,we have two mothers with small children and we are looking for someone to trade  seat so they can sit together.”

Now here’s where you think SOMEONE will volunteer to be tribute.  There just HAS to be a Katniss on board.  

For the second time, not one passenger offered.  They played on their tablets, started reading their nooks, and some even stuck their headphones into their ears.

Having just left Disney, I tried to keep calm.  I was two seconds too close to going VILLIAN on them, but I knew if I stayed calm, someone just might cave.

No dice.

I announced for the third time, “so there is NO ONE that is willing to offer us a seat so I can sit with my two young children?  One had motion sickness on the last flight all the way to Florida and the other has allergies.  In fact, this backpack is filled with her epi-pen and medical supplies. We really can’t sit apart.”

SILENCE.  The kind that pierces your skin.  The kind that has you thinking there is no hope for our race.

We walked the plank back to the front, the seven of us.   Our dad found a seat in the first four rows and my sister put her eighth grader near two grandparents that weren’t willing to make the sacrifice to split up.   They watched as my sister started to cry and still had the audacity to get up and put her inside, near the window, further from her mother because they didn’t like that seat.

The next part had me choked up. I watched my sister place her little eight year old, the smallest one with us in a seat by herself with strangers while she took a seat four rows back.  I squeezed her arm and told her she was so brave and she is TEN times better than anyone on board and we’d be home in no time.  Just like riding a bus.  I made sure to make that loud enough for everyone in the last ten rows to hear. 

My turn.  There was no way in HELL I was going to sit my girls and me apart.  I didn’t care if I took the next flight.  I was not going to seat my two tearful girls in separate seats ten people apart from one another and me.  

I refused to sit.  Not kidding. I held the flight up.  They could not leave because I would not sit.  I would not allow this inhumanity to win.   Love was in my heart and no request would be too extreme.

The attendant told me to put them wherever and I told her if she didn’t find us a seat together I would not move from my location.

She then asked a young single man, in his twenties if he would move a seat.  I must say here that he was on an aisle.  He had one seat between him and an old man last in that row pretended he did not see what was happening. 

Young man gets up,  goes up two rows and my daughters take the two seats there and I take the seat across the aisle. In fact, I get to sit with a couple, who resembled grandparents, who offered me a snack, my children snacks and some bubblegum.  But they couldn’t offer a seat to me two minutes ago.

Six rows back, seatbelts on, my niece starts panicking.  Her sobs are now hyperventilation and is crying for her mother.  Finally, a woman with two teenage sons offers my sister a seat and they joined one another in the safety of their arms.

I watch the rest of the flight as the man next to my daughters helps my girls with their buckles, putting on their lights and pointing things out the window.  And yet he had not offered his seat.

I watch young couples without children laugh and talk as if nothing happened and as if sacrificing two hours away from one another was too much of a price to pay.

I watched everyone everywhere play animated bird games and make their ways through mazes assisting one another .  Some checking their messages, texts,and iphone picture galleries. 

Some ordered alcoholic beverages while others give a tall order of how they want their drink served and exactly what snack is to be delivered.  The attendants smiling now, as friendly as ever, go by me and have the nerve to ask, “is there anything we can get you?”

My sister left her seat whenever possible to check on her other daughter and console the one with her.  Who knows what might have been going through her mind, her fourteen year old daughter sitting in the back seat next to a strange man. 

Within minutes, my youngest had hives up and down her legs and I was applying her medicated cream and prescribed allergy medicine.  The hives worsened for a bit, but luckily passed before I had to apply an epi-pen.  I was positive it was the peanut dust from the seat she was sitting in. My oldest held her tummy most of the way and reached for my hand while biting the fingernails on another.

Our only solace was a mother behind me that apologized for not offering her seat.  She had two young boys with her and could not leave them.   We became instant friends.  I told her her parents should be proud of the person she became. She even talked my daughters through their fears at takeoff while I calmed myself down.

Worse yet was the landing.  I waited for my sister and finally her oldest from the back row.  I made sure to give eye contact to each and every passenger that went by, hoping someone would find it in their heart to apologize or make amends or what had happened. Nothing.  Other than glares and people looking straight forward.  Their conscience, if they ever had one, left behind.

Here’s where it gets even worse.   We waited in a row for the eighth grader.   “Great job!”we said and my sister yelled, “she did awesome!” Next we saw the woman who had gotten up last minute for my niece and my sister told her ‘thank you.’ Still, why she had to wait for my niece to start gasping for air to move her seat, I'll never know.  I asked my sister if that was the woman who helped and she nodded.  That’s when a high school boy walked by and said to both of us mothers, “YEAH, to get what YOU wanted.”  

Followed by, get this, his high school age sister mimicking in a sing-songy sarcastic voice, “ooooh, you pooooorr souls.”  And they both laughed.   I told them may God forgive you for what you just said especially if you are going to have children someday.  My sister, a bit braver yelled, “you better not be outside this terminal when I get off.”  I wanted to give her a hug.  Course it embarrassed our children from Infinity to Beyond!”

As I left the plane, I made sure to make a pit stop to the cockpit. I got one more, “can I help you?” from the attendants and I replied, “ yes, you can. I will need both your names.”   They asked what for. 

I told them that they would be reported  for this incident.  I told them it was neglectful and I would be speaking to their authorities and they should know that if my youngest had an asthma attack on board without me and her medical pack, they would have been held responsible.  That attendant did nothing but flash her sales smile until I turned away.  Then she looked at my eight year old daughter, the one with the peanut allergy and said, "you're just lucky you were on the same plane with your mother." 

Friends, we ought to worry about  our future.  This was just an example of how we as a generation, have come to a crossroads.  We are failing ourselves.  My own father,  a purple heart veteran, sacrificed his life for the people of this country and no one on board that ship would sacrifice a single seat for two hours.  I hope for their sake if they sit on their next flight and they need assistance or a helping hand, that someone like me would be sitting next to them.

One inspiration though,came from my own daughters.  The oldest was cold on the flight and I watched with pride as my youngest TOOK OFF her sweatshirt and offered it to her.   Even helped her put it on.

For what faith I have in people I don’t know of, but what strikes me the most is the WOMEN, especially those who have been blessed with children of their own or grandchildren,could not open their hearts and just move over a row.  God forbid it happened to one of their loved ones.

Southwest Airlines failed us tonight.  But most  of all, humankind.  There I was, a mother who had worked an entire school year to provide her children with a special gift of magic and wishes and believing anything can happen.  A mother who was just looking for a place for her child.

And her response was “there is no room at the inn.”

 I will be speaking to this airline.  And furthermore, I will continue to instill in my own children for the next generation that one must care about others.  One must put others first.  And  that fate is kind. She brings to those who love.  I hope you carry on as well.

Let's BLOG Hotel Hell

I am in HOTEL HELL.

You see our oldest is on an all-star softball team.  2^nd string that is.  Meaning she’s the best striker outer our league’s got.  But I will say she is the cutest centerfielder and the best breakdancer in the dugout.

This weekend the all-star team sets off to a tournament.  IN DOVER.  Which might as well be Canada.  And worst yet, the first game on a SATURDAY, MY DAY OFF is at 9am.  We were notified to be at the field at 8am.  IN DOVER. 

I took that like the news of a colonoscopy gone bad.  Right up the asshole. I have been riding a runaway train for the last three weeks really, between school and softball and back again, averaging a whopping five hours of sleep a night.  I didn’t even buy a ticket for this flipping train but I can’t get off and by the looks of me, you’d think I was in some sort of a TRAIN WRECK.

So alarm set.  Saturday morning, SIX AM.  I’m all packed, I lug two zombie girls to the car, and my handwritten google map directions to every softball field in Dover BUT the one we’re supposed to report to by 8am.  

I know, I know, I should have set the GPS.  The husband did give it to me.  You see, I’m a bit old fashioned.  There’s something REALLY creepy about a little gadget that speaks to you like a female robot, but more like a credit collector that could not reach you by phone so she broke into your car. And she has her period. 

 I am also well aware my husband is in Boston til 11am, in a production studio of COMPUTERS.  He can google map his ass off.  So when Mommy’s on a trip, she’s got her very own LIVE GPS: Daddy.  I might add that each and every time I call him SCREAMING MY HEAD OFF that I’m in freaking Boonieville or downtown ShitStain instead of my destination, he falls more and more in love with me.

We hit 93, then 101, onward to 125 and things are going well other than the girls complaining about foot space and the leftover jelly munchkin in the back seat.    Route 155 is when it all turns sour and I’m forced to call my Human GPS and tell him since I can’t find the actual field, I am going to host my OWN flipping softball tournament.   And at this point, it’s 7:35 on a Saturday morning, MY DAY OFF, and I don’t care if have it in a cow pasture.  We’re gonna’ GET R’ DONE!

On any other given day or time, I would have enjoyed the drive.  It was very scenic.  New Hampshire hills, dairy farms, and freshly manured dung mounds. Everything I love.  But when I’m in a big ass hurry, I can’t enjoy anything but  the mindboggling,  sadistic game playing tactics of google maps.com.   

I swear there are little google NASA men up there in a satellite getting their jollies sending we earthlings on these deadend expeditions watching us flip out because you know they’ve been stuck up in space since the internet gave birth and we are their only entertainment.

I’m 10 minutes late.   Not bad for a girl that fancies her lack of punctuality.  That’s after freaking out with my Human GPS from towns I’ve never heard of like Lee and Madbury. 

One game, two games, three games later, I’m spent.  I decide to take my youngest daughter to HOTEL HELL to check in, clean up, and fumigate the room.  

You see, not only did I make the mistake of volunteering my day OFF to go to DOVER, I let the GPS Guy, Robert, choose the hotel.  Or should I say HOSTEL.  

And there’s Robert, one week before our Disney trip, with two bucks to our name, trying to save  few pennies.  He chooses a certain INN.   Right there on MAIN STREET, America. 

 I’m all alone with my eight year old remember, and since my husband has joined us at the game, I am forced to submit to the REAL GPS.  Unfortunately for me, her cramps are even worse and she has no chocolate to spare.

Feeling courageous, I enter the address of the inn into the GPS and for the next forty minutes  I participate in a reanactment of Chevy Chase’s European Vacation.   

There’s the  INN.   On Main Street, America.  As well as twelve forks in the road, fourteen thousand one way streets, and a GPS that keeps demanding a take a U-TURN as soon as readily possible.  I could SEE the sign, right there in front of me, but I just could NOT get to the parking lot. I swear the hotel clerk was laughing her ass off at me, passing the hotel  10, 12 times as I announced, “LOOK, KIDS! Big Ben! Parliament!”  

Let’s back up here. Robert picked the hotel.  He tried to LURE me in with “it’s 7 out of 10 good reviews” and its TWO STAR status, and it’s two story ‘RESORT’ with its own inground pool, hot tub, in downtown DOVER five minutes from the softball field.  That’s about when I pull out of my freaking LOOK, KIDS! BIG BEN! PARLIAMENT! nightmare  and into HOTEL HELL.

First thing I notice is that adjacent to the INN is a Studio Apartment complex that shares the same parking lot and spa.   Then I soak it all in.  The two story structure, straight out of 1975, looking like Mike Brady designed it himself.  It also looked like many a teenage girl spent their junior PROM night in said resort.

Now Robert and I don’t exactly live in the lap of luxury.  Fayville doesn’t even have upstairs plumbing at the moment and the only thing FIVE STAR about it, is Grampa Bob’s inlaw apartment and his boombox.  When we get away, it’s usually to the family camp and the occasional Hilton hotel.  This INN, on Main Street, America did not look like it was worthy of two stars, seven good reviews, and it’s own brand of toothpaste.

Nevertheless, we check in.  With two golden girl ladies wearing NECKTIES.   

Everything goes smoothly and we are given our room keys.   You know you’re dealing with “LUXURY” when they tell you not to put your room keys near your cell phone or it will deactivate them and you have to fill out a PARKING PASS for your vehicle so it does not get towed.  

I reassured “Bea Arthur” of the INN that my very angry GPS lady who has run out of Midol will not allow any vandalism to my vehicle. After all, she’s there to collect my outstanding balance from my ten year old JCPenney account.

Next I take my parking pass and plastic room keys to the room, the balcony suite, and my daughter and I settle our luggage.  Even she’s not impressed and she’s never even been to a junior prom suite.

First off, I notice the display of authentic New Hampshire artistry: FLAPPING WINGED DUCKS on an OCTOBER MORNING POND.

The room seems clean enough and it does come equipped with its own iron.  Which by the way, I don’t care WHAT vacation I am EVER on, I REFUSE,and I repeat, I REFUSE to participate in any IRONING.  Luckily, the room also housed a SAFE in case you want to lock up your juice boxes and Gatorade since the room didn’t have a mini-refrigerator.

Two double beds, a night table,  bureau, a desk and chair, and a room with a view of the parking lot. That’s so you can watch your vehicle get towed away just in case you forgot your parking pass. 

The bathroom was big enough for one if you don’t mind pissing with your knees on a wall.  It also came with this sign that I was very impressed with, you know, because I am all about ‘saving the earth and all.’

However, this sign had me thinking I should have brought along my own linens.  Or at least a portable dry cleaning device.  When Robert arrived, he pointed out that the pillowcases also had a similar sign, encouraging you to use them more than once.

I know you might be shuddering of the thought of one sharing a leftover pillowcase, but that’s only because you are wasteful and don’t give a shit about our great planet or the survival of the head lice population.

Now you can go ahead and itch.

When our oldest was finally rested, we visited the inn’s pool and spa: a  20 foot long hole in a concrete floor shaped like a jellybean and a hot tub equipped with some of Dover’s finest plus-sized models enjoying a relaxing bubble dip. I’m assuming they resided in the apartment suites and probably frequent the tub with their illegitimate children each and every Saturday.

There were six chairs, all reserved by the local  apartment residents so I stood poolside watching my girls dip in and out of the jellybean while I counted the minutes before I could scrub them in the shower.   What was lovely was the hot tub ladies summoning Bea Arthur toward them, so they could recommend some ideas for the suggestion box.  One being that they actually MAKE a suggestion box and the other that the hotel offers a complimentary dinner with steak tips and lobster.

You can’t make this shit up but you CAN make your daughters simmer in a tub of bleach before you hit the sack.  Or at least have them down a 10oz bottle of amoxycillin.

So here I am, 11pm on a Saturday, MY DAY OFF,  in HOTEL HELL.  Hard to sleep due to the air conditioning unit that is controlled by the thermostat.  Sometimes I feel like I'm sleeping on an air strip and other moments I'm in a time capsule of doom.

 I’ll be honest.  I am not here because I needed to ‘get away.’   I am here because I am flipping tired and I’d rather spend the night here in HOTEL HELL than get up at the crack of dawn on SUNDAY MORNING, my next day OFF, to go watch another  seven rounds of softball. 

My human GPS of a husband is snoring away, probably prideful of his choice in hotel chains and satisfied that he saved thirty two dollars and twelve cents.  And he's most likely going to dream about the free two star continental breakfast.

If Bea Arthur does ever make a suggestion box,  I’d only have a few comments.  First being, the LOOK, KIDS! BIG BEN! PARLIAMENT! gig is really not that funny unless you ARE, in fact, riding shotgun to Chevy Chase.   And second being, their PRE-PASTED toothbrushes are so convenient that I am stealing more than my share.  They should probably keep those in the safe.

And lastly,this comment addressed to the HOTEL HELL CHAIN themselves: 

I don’t care if your toilet paper has a fancy triangle fold.  Or your pillowcases.  Or even your bath towels.   You can triangle that place up the asshole, and it will still be three stars short of a Hilton.

half-a-mom