The Unhappiest Place on Earth and Other Vacation Tales

Curlytop is NOT down with Disney.

For children with Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD), Disneyland may not be the carefree wonderland promoters would have parents believe. In fact, for some SPD kids, it may be something closer to one giant house of horrors.

We weren’t thinking about that when we forked over a month’s worth of grocery money at the hallowed gates of the theme park. We were thinking about the memories we were creating with our children.

Memories, indeed.

I’ll never forget Curlytop and Snugglebug screaming in terror at the sweet face of the wooden puppet who came to life during a gently ambling journey through a darkened ride which featured a blissfully beautiful good fairy and a kindly old man. Snugglebug reviewed the Pinocchio ride with carefully-crafted restraint. “It was scary, and I hated it.”

Next up was a ride so sweet and mild, adults dread it and children adore it. After all, it really is a small, small world, and if the syrupy song doesn’t give you a toothache, the angelic faces of children from around the globe certainly will.

Unfortunately, our mid-November visit meant the ride was outfitted for Christmas, and played not only that most-dreaded song but a Christmas carol in alternating blasts—and sometimes in tandem. The usually charming children were all but hidden behind blinking, glimmering, aggressively-featured holiday decorations. Add all that visual and audio busyness to chilling blasts of air to simulate snowfall, and it’s the perfect recipe for SPD meltdowns.

Oh, yes. We were “that family” on the Small World ride. The family with the shrieking kid who just won’t shut up? That’s us.

I got Curlytop to agree to board a carousel—on the condition that we’d sit on a bench, not a moving horse—only to have her burst into tears as the music started, resulting in an emergency disembarkation.

The crowds, smells, larger-than-life cartoon characters, noise, lights and general chaos of Disneyland must have felt like the equivalent of a straight-to-video horror flick for my girls. I’m ashamed to say I drank the Disney kool-aid, and never considered my children would be anything but thrilled to see Mickey’s stomping grounds.

The next day of our vacation was exceptional, by comparison. We hit Knott’s Berry Farm, with its old-school, carnival-type rides and games. The park lacks the hologram-filled adventure rides of Disneyland, but Curlytop and Snugglebug loved “driving” race cars and semi-trucks around a tiny track without sensory assault, and were perfectly content to hang at Camp Snoopy for hours.

Plus? It’s half the price of Disneyland.

While the little girls played with Mr. Wright, the older girls and I embarked on a quest to ride every rollercoaster in the park. While Princess loves a good ‘coaster, she’s a bit more selective than the rest of us—no vertical drops, and no rocket launches.

That put her on snack patrol with Curlytop and Snugglebug, while Mr. Wright begrudgingly agreed to be my seatmate while Pepper rode with GirlWonder on the Xcelerator—a ‘coaster which starts like a pinball machine, pulling the car back, then launching it at 82 miles per hour in 2.3 seconds to a height of 205 feet, then drops essentially straight down before hitting two overbanked turns and gliding to a stop. To top it off, it’s pink. It looks for all the world like the Barbie Dream ‘Coaster—not an encouraging thought.

Xcelerator at dusk.

It was amazing, and no one soiled their pants.

The coup de grâce was the notorious GhostRider wooden rollercoaster, which my fellow junkies and I waited two hours in line to board, due to a sudden cloudburst. Apparently, the ride can’t be run in the rain and, while we love a good shot of adrenaline, we’re more than happy to leave such judgments to the professionals. We’d like to stay on the track, and make it to the end in one piece, thank you very much.

It was dark by the time we finally boarded our car. Riding the rails in the dark made the experience even more exhilarating, and sealed our status as Knott’s devotees.

The drive back home to Washington featured a near-brawl in a supermarket parking lot, a highway flooded with spilled port-a-potties, sing-a-longs to Fleetwood Mac, carsickness, drive-thrus, and 1,100 miles of memories I wouldn’t trade for a month of Disney.

Eat your heart out, Mickey… The happiest place on earth is where is my family is.

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Somebody is Always Broken or Bleeding

Last night I cut my finger while slicing a loaf of bread. It’s not an unusual event. In fact, I fillet myself quite frequently. If Mr. Wright had his way, my kitchen tools would be pared down to rolling pins and spoons, though I frequently manage to find a way to injure myself with those, as well.

I quickly wrapped a paper towel around my bloody digit and set off in search of an adhesive bandage. An hour later, I gave up the search for the elusive bandage. The bleeding had pretty much stopped by then, anyway.

There are few things I can count on in my chaotic life, but there are two facts I’ve come to accept as the noble truths of The Gonzo Mama’s world. The first is that I’ll never find an adhesive bandage when I cut myself. The second is that if one of our kids is going to get hurt, it’s going to be on my watch.

Sure, there have been rare exceptions. Pockets was hit by a car in a crosswalk during a visit with my ex-husband. Curlytop was bit by a dog and Mr. Wright had to spend the night with her in the hospital while she received intravenous antibiotics while I was out of town making the cake for my friend’s 50th birthday party. The Dude cracked his collarbone while sledding with friends.

Still, the majority of the blood and busted bones occur when I’m the only adult in the house.

I have an almost pathological fear of blood and broken body parts. I was the first student in my school district to challenge the dissection requirement in sophomore Biology. At the time, I cited my vegetarian and animal rights principles, but the truth was much simpler. I just can’t stand the sight of blood, incisions or anatomical parts not being where they are supposed to be.

When Pepper executed a poorly-landed flip on the bars at the park and broke her nose, there was a lot of blood. I mean, slasher film amounts of blood; buckets of it. Somehow, I hadn’t properly planned for a broken nose when packing the car for our outing to the park. All I could offer poor Pepper en route to the emergency room was a handful of Taco Bell napkins and a very dirty beach towel.

Luckily for us – and those unfortunate enough to be traveling on the roads that day – I only had to drive about six blocks with the radio drowning out the sound of hysterical shrieking.

Pepper, however, stayed pretty calm.

When we burst through the doors of the ER, the staff responded in a rapid, practiced manner. “Let’s get that kid into the back for some x-rays, and for the love of God, give the mom a sedative!”

GirlWonder’s name might imply that she has superpowers. I’m not denying that she does. Flying just doesn’t happen to be one of them. When GirlWonder was seven, she fell out of the neighbors’ tree house, compound fracturing her arm. She ran home, holding her grotesquely disfigured arm in front of her. (Insert Sesame Street™ closing line: “Today’s arm is brought to you by the letter Z!”)

Something about broken bones triggers my gag reflex like nothing else. It’s hard to convince a child that everything is going to be okay when you’re alternately dry-heaving and screaming like a banshee.

The ER visit was short, and revealed that GirlWonder would need immediate surgery. The doctor summoned the anesthesiologist. “When you’re done with the mom,” the ER doc suggested, “why don’t you stick around and put the kid out for surgery?”

Curlytop has more nosebleeds than a boxer with a bad block, but the little dickens only gets them when Daddy is gone. I’m starting to develop a conspiracy theory.

The problem is, we never have minor injuries. If my family is going to get hurt, they’re going to warrant inhuman amounts of direct pressure, an emergency room visit, surgery, or all of the above. Why bother with adhesive bandages?

I would have received better results if I’d actually severed the finger. Clearly, it’s time to sharpen that bread knife.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/scherre/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Orange You Glad I Didn't Say "Banana?"

This is the dawning of the Age of the Knock-Knock Joke
the Age of the Knock-Knock Joke

the Age of the Knock-Knock Joooooooke...

And so, it begins.

At the age of four, Pockets started making up his own knock-knock jokes. They were really good, too, like:

Knock-knock!

Who's there?

Moo!

Moo who?

It's me, A COW! *cracks self up*

I don't remember the knock-knock jokes that Pepper and GirlWonder used to tell at that age, but I'm pretty sure the punchlines involved the physical act of biting the "Who's there?" party. My girls were biters. They were pretty serious about it, too, achieving a lifetime forty percent return on attempts to draw blood.

Their middle school vampire-worshiping friends would be impressed!

Now, it's Curlytop's time. She hasn't quite picked up on the give-and-take line delivery yet, but she's getting the idea...

Knock-knock!

Who--

IT'S ME!

It's me, wh--

Oh, look! Grandma's here! *cracks self up*

Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/wafflechomper/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/artolog/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

What's YOUR favorite knock-knock joke?

God Bless the TSA

My kids are no strangers to air travel and the finer points of airport security. It’s one of those things that are taught by repetition, like potty training and shoelace tying. If you see a kid in the security checkpoint line at the airport with their shoes already off, there’s a pretty good chance the child belongs to me.

As a family, we don’t typically miss flights, but we are near-famous for almost missing flights. In spite of the fact that post-9/11 airport security takes longer to get through, some members of our family (the kids and me) still seem to have trouble getting out the door, and still others (Mr. Wright) make a mantra of “We’ll make it, no problem,” with a foot firmly applied to the gas pedal en route to the airport.

With less than a quarter mile to go, I verbally ran through the checklist: Necklaces? Bracelets? Metal barrettes? Yes, Pepper, bobby pins are metal, and must come out. Liquids in a quart-sized zipper bag and easily accessible? Check, check, check.

Mr. Wright always goes through security first, followed by the kids, and I go last. It’s an attempt to corral the children between us, with a responsible adult on either side of the herd of youngsters. I did a time check. We had twenty minutes until our flight boarded, and the line at security wasn’t terribly long. We could do it, provided no one was carrying a pocketknife and I remembered to take my netbook out of my purse and send it through in its own bin.

Mr. Wright got through the metal detector and started pulling bags off the conveyor belt. Pepper was up next, and handed me her purse. “Some of my liquids are in here, and some of them are in my backpack.”

Gah! All that training, for this? “No, Pepper. Your liquids all need to go into your zipper bag, and the bag has to be out of your backpack. Rearrange. Do it. Quickly.”

In the meantime, GirlWonder pulled her zipper bag of liquids out, put them into a bin, plopped her backpack on the conveyor, and stepped through the metal detector. Pepper had finally sorted her liquids and complied with the security measures when a Transportation Security Administration agent held up GirlWonder’s backpack. “Whose is this?” She was looking at me.

“That’s my daughter’s. Is there a problem?” I was still taking my computer out of my purse and locating an empty bin.

“There’s a drink in the bottom of it. Drinks are liquids.”

Of course they are. I chastised GirlWonder from the opposite side of the metal detector. “How did you manage to forget an entire sports drink in your bag? You know the rules.” I tossed my backpack onto the conveyor, stepped through the metal detector and kept going. “How many times have we done this? How many times have we gone through security? You know better, Honey. We shouldn’t have these kinds of mistakes.”

GirlWonder was appropriately sorry. She’d forgotten the drink was in her bag. The TSA agent simply asked that the bottle be thrown away, and GirlWonder complied. My computer came through the x-ray machine, but my purse was taking a long time. It would start to emerge, then get pulled back in for another look.

Finally, the belt started up again and my purse came out. The TSA worker opened it and peeked in. “I’m really sorry about the drink,” I was explaining. “I don’t know how it happened. Our kids have done this many, many times. It was just careless…”

“This is your purse?” the agent asked.

“Yes,” I answered. I stood on my toes to look inside with her. There, in the top of my bag, was my entire quart-sized bag of liquids. In all the drama about the sports drink and my tirade about the rules for liquids, I’d forgotten to take them out of my purse.

The TSA worker winked at me. “Have a good flight, ma’am.”

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/billypalooza/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

I Hope Jesus has a Sense of Humor

When GirlWonder's fifth-grade teacher informed us that our darling was an excellent student but had a habit of "blurting" out of turn, I wasn't surprised. In fact, I am pretty sure where she gets it.

I harnessed my dubious talents of blurting and having a general lack of decorum at a very young age. In fact, I skipped the third grade due to said talent. "I can't have her in my classroom another day," an exasperated Mrs. P complained to the principal and my mother. "She talks out of turn, blurting out answers. True, they're correct answers, but... I just think perhaps she isn't challenged enough."

Two weeks later, in Mrs. I's fourth-grade classroom, I spent recess inside, listening to her chastise me for correcting her in front of the class. "Perhaps you are, indeed, very familiar with Roman numerals. Perhaps the example that I posted on the board was, in fact, incorrect. However, in the future, you will call it to my attention privately, and not blurt it out in front of the entire class."

Well, sheesh. I was only looking out for the best interests of my fellow students. I mean, what kind of an education could they be expected to receive if I couldn't correct the errors of our teacher?

My high school English teacher actually removed me from the classroom for the duration of my senior year. "I feel that perhaps my class isn't challenging you enough," he sighed. "Perhaps you would benefit from an honors class of sorts... Go write a book. Check in with me at the end of the year." He didn't fool me. He just wanted to remove my loudly-stated ideas from the classroom.

True, these individuals held the keys to my educational success in their chalk-dusted hands, but it never really occurred to me to be afraid of ruffling feathers with my lack of propriety.

Jesus, though, is another matter. He holds my very salvation (along with "the whole world") in His hands.

Does Jesus make a note on my report card when I ask, in the middle of a sermon, if the land of milk and honey allows vegans? I'm seriously concerned about this. I mean, the Bible makes it sound like it's all that, but really? Milk and honey? Could it be any more un-vegan? What if I get to the land of milk and honey and find there is, in fact, no soy milk and no stevia? What am I going to do then?

And communion! I've screwed up communion so many times, I can't quite believe that it's not going on my permanent record. Sometimes, when my church forgets to order communion wafers, they substitute butter crackers or shortbread. On more than one occasion, I've piously placed the sacrament in my mouth, only to spit it out when I realized I just put a morsel of butter or egg-filled cookie in my mouth.

"What do I do?" I've asked my pastor. "I spit out the body of Christ! That can't be good, right? I mean, I'm a vegan on principle, and I don't think Jesus wants me to compromise my principles, but He can't be too impressed with me spitting out His body, right?"

I mean, really, what WOULD Jesus do?

Or, more appropriately, what would a vegan Jesus do? "The bread I'll multiply... But the fish? Really kid? Do you have any tempeh? Tofu?"

Daddy Got Lei'd on Father's Day...

...and boy, was he surprised!
The kids made candy leis and "sodas" for Mr. Wright at church for Father's Day. How cute are those?! The leis are mini candies, wrapped in plastic wrap and strung together with ribbon. The sodas are malt glasses, filled with unwrapped chocolates for the "soda" and topped with mini marshmallows and gummy candies for the "whipped cream and sprinkles."

After church, we headed over to my parents' house to wish my dad a happy Father's Day.

Can I insert a plug about step-families here? Can I just say that being a step-parent is infinitely harder than being a biological parent? Anyone who takes on the job is equal parts crazy and wonderful, and I am so grateful for my dad. He did, after all, raise me from a little hellion into a pretty well-adjusted woman after he married my mom.

That's Pepper, The Dude, Snugglebug, Grandpa, GirlWonder, Curlytop and Bandit (the little blurry blurb of action that Curlytop is pushing away). It's tough to get a photo with a ton of kids and two dogs running around.

"The toys at Grandpa's house make noise! Why don't we have toys at home that make noise?!"

"Grandma and Grandpa have a garden. We don't have a garden because Mommy kills plants. She's a vegan, you know... it's savage, seeing her brutally chop up a carrot! Oh, the horror!"

"We helped Grandma harvest her strawberries!"

My mom fed us (because she's amazing) and we piled the kids into the car when the whining started (because we love my parents, and want them to ask us to come back).

During the 45-minute drive home, I called my bio father, who lives three hours away. He was heading out to have dinner with my sister and her in-laws, but said he'd call me when he got back.

This morning, I looked at my missed calls. He called at 8:59 p.m. We were all already zonked out. What a busy day! I'll be giving him a very happy day-after-Father's-Day call today.

Hope your Father's Day was equally busy, and equally blessed!

Mommy Makeover

It will never happen, but sometimes I dream of signing up for one of those cosmetic surgery reality shows, and getting THE WORKS. I look way too old for my age… Motherhood years must be like dog years.

Being a mom is tough on the body, for sure. The stretch marks that cover my butt and go down to my knees don’t exactly imply, “bikini model.” No matter how many crunches or bellydance classes I agonize through, I will always have a layer of wrinkled, loose, jiggly skin over my abs, effectively proclaiming that I don’t exercise at all. Ever.

Motherhood and Gravity are great pals, and clever, too! They’ve deduced that they are much more effective in tandem. Once a woman gives birth, things start sagging at an accelerated rate.

A few years ago, I bought a short, flirty sundress. When I pulled it out last summer, I was astonished… “Honey!” I shouted to my husband. “I’ve grown, like, three inches… Look! My dress barely covers my butt now!” Mr. Wright surveyed the hem of the dress, then offered, “I don’t think you’re taller, Babe. Maybe your butt’s just a bit, um… lower.”

Certainly, genetics play a part. My crooked teeth are a gift from some European ancestor; my fine, limp hair comes from my father’s family; the puffy “perma-bags” under my eyes also grace the faces of most women in my family; my long, pointy nose comes from… Alan Alda? I never knew my mom was such a fan.

Perhaps part of the dissatisfaction with my appearance lies in the undeniable realization that I look nothing like my children. True, I did not give birth to six of the seven, but even my own son looks more like my husband’s brother than anyone in my family.

It’s not only vanity that fuels my fantasies of a makeover. (Although, to be honest, what mama doesn’t secretly desire a little “freshening up?”) The more complex truth is that I wish my outside matched my inside; the heart that knows and loves each of my children as if I had borne them all myself.

I know I’m looking in the wrong place. Scrutinizing my reflection in the mirror will never provide evidence that these children are mine, in spite of who gave birth to them. In truth, I need look no further than the kids, themselves. Princess has a compassionate heart and love for animals like me, and The Dude mirrors my reclusive nature. Pockets has my offbeat sense of humor, and Pepper is fiercely headstrong and outspoken, like her stubborn mama. GirlWonder’s developing writing skills make me proud. Dare I hope she, too, chooses to be a writer? Curlytop, like her quirky mother, sees exciting, obscure details in the mundane; and Snugglebug shares my ability to go from serious to giggling in 4.5 seconds.

I am exactly who I need to be, if I only stop looking so closely. For now, I’ll put my makeover fantasies away, along with my mirror, and be satisfied. Wait a minute – are those… crow’s feet?

Reality television, here I come!

A version of this story appears in Volume 1, Issue 3 of Gonzo Parenting. Order your copy today!

The Center for Disease… whatever.

I am pleased to inform you that my family has survived the wretched Flu Epidemic of 2008.

Hmm? What’s that? You say you didn’t hear there was an epidemic?

Did you miss it on CNN? I’ll recap:

• Monday AM – Two year-old, Snugglebug, begins projectile vomiting.
• Monday PM – Three year-old, Curlytop, joins her sister. They projectile vomit in assorted colors.
• Tuesday AM – Ten year-old, GirlWonder, repaints her bedroom in stylish “vomit” scheme. Doesn’t go to school. Babies are feeling much better and celebrate by opening front door and running down block in just diapers while Mom is in shower. Mom panics and runs through neighborhood in towel.
• Tuesday PM – Fourteen and fifteen year-old sons, Pockets and The Dude, return from school. They vomit. Twelve year-old daughter, Pepper, vomits. Mom posts sign on front door: “DANGER! High-Speed Vomit!”
• Wednesday AM - Mom takes babies to appointment, since they are “fine” now. Walks into doctor’s office and two year-old vomits on wall, floor and Mom. Mom apologizes profusely to receptionist, changes two year-old into clean clothes. Two and three year-old girls synchronize filling of their pants with diarrhea, which runs down their legs. Mom grabs a baby under each arm and runs, without rescheduling. Pepper and boys still puking.
• Wednesday PM - Dad pukes… and pukes. Babies puke. Mom says she can’t stand any more puking and is running away from home. Gets to driveway and pukes.
• Thursday AM – Eighteen year-old, Princess, says she feels like puking but isn’t going to, because she’s running for ASB President and doesn’t have time. Family disowns her.

Can we even count on the Center for Disease Control to publicize these large-scale outbreaks anymore?

Eight out of nine members of my household were afflicted with this horrible virus… That’s 88.9% of the population!

I’d call that an epidemic, wouldn’t you?