Once Hamma Time had officially ended, DH put the van in drive. And we drove.
Well,
he drove.
I mostly sat back and begged him to turn the windshield wipers on high instead of showing me how well the Rain X application he’d recently put on the windshield was working.
Without
any help whatsoever from the wipers.
And no, I’m not as impressed with the fact that Rain X causes raindrops to bead up and shimmy up the surface of the windshield as much as I am impressed with the ability of the windshield wiper to actually wipe the rain off the windshield. In a timely manner.
But then again, maybe it’s a guy thing.
All I know is we were in the middle of a downpour going 75 mph and he was not using the windshield wipers. Claimed we didn’t need ‘em. Not with a fresh application of Rain X. Silly woman.
He said. With his eyes.
I like to think of myself as a fairly laid back person. Things that ruffle others peoples’ feathers normally don’t even show up on my radar. But there are some things that are just supposed to happen or else the world will cease to exist.
Not really.
But I will get extremely anxious. My right leg will begin to shake. Violently. My left eye (NOLisaLopez) will twitch. Sporadically. My teeth will clench. Grindingly. My hands will raise in the air. Involuntarily. And I will begin to pull out my hair one strand at a time. Painfully.
And using windshield wipers…while it’s
raining…is one of those things.
And so it was that much of the first leg of our journey was spent with him putting the wipers on Ignore and me slowly but surely going stark raving mad (NOEdgarAllenPoe) because of it. I finally broke down and screamed “AT LEAST GIVE ME SOME INTERMITTENT ACTION AND BUMP UP THE TEMPO, MAN!”
Which he did. Reluctantly.
Because of that whole marriage and compromise thing.
In case you were wondering, the above example is one of many reasons why you should never, ever take a road trip with us. Besides, of course, the fact that it’s necessary to bring barf bags with us wherever we go. And we won’t even go into the details of the time the Porta Potty overflowed. In the van.
Otherwise known as The Porta Potty Incident of 2004.
That’s another story for another day.
We had gotten a little bit of a late start that day and from the way things were shaping up, today would not be the day that DH beat last year’s time. We caught a tailwind last year and made it to the House of Mouse in seven and a half hours. It normally takes us eight. But last year was a stellar year as far as the time goes. My husband was so proud of shaving a full half hour off the time that he called his dad soon after we’d checked into our resort to brag. Because apparently that’s what men do when they make good time.
DH: Dad, we just checked in. You should see this place. It’s nice.
DFIL: That’s great, son. What kind of time did you make?
DH: Thought you’d never ask. Seven and a half hours.
DFIL: Seven and a half hours? That’s
dang good time, son.
He struck up conversations with complete strangers on the bus in order to brag on the time.
DH: Hi. We’re from Mississippi and we drove here.
Stranger on the bus: Oh really? How long did it take you to get here?
DH: Thought you’d never ask. Seven and a half hours.
Stranger on the bus: That’s
dang good time, man.
In fact, he will still bring up The Year We Made Great Time to me every now and then and my standard response without exception must be “That’s
dang good time” or else he’ll chase me down the hall, hold me down and give me a wedgie.
But as time (not to mention the traffic) crept on and we began passing fellow motorists in the ditches and medians, he let go of the dream of beating or even matching last years’ time on this trip and instead set the lofty goal of merely getting us there in one piece.
Safe and sound was the order of the day.
Slow and low was the tempo.
The man gripped the steering wheel tightly, trained his eyes on the road and reluctantly turned the DJ duties over to me. For a change. That’s when you know driving conditions are bad. When the man turns over the road trip DJ duties. Because like its siblings, the remote control and the steering wheel, the stereo is something that falls under the category of Things The Man of the House Must Have His Mitts On.
It’s a Daily Double.
And if it's not, it should be.
I was pleased to find that the “surprise” from earlier was that he’d loaded the CD changer with six different discs with nothing but 70s, 80s and early 90s music on them. Stuff we’d both listened to in our childhoods, through the awkward preteen years and into young adulthood. Stuff that brought back tons of memories for both of us, lots of bad singing and more than a few laughs. In other words, instead of spending eight or so hours listening to the soundtrack of our vacations, we'd be spending eight or so hours listening to the soundtrack of our lives. The man had made the ultimate “mix tape” and had sufficiently impressed me with his musical collection.
Again.
So as we journeyed with Journey toward the Vertical Horizon and wondered what could possibly be Better Than Ezra, DH turned up the AC (DC) and resisted the urge to kick it into Bachman Turner Overdrive. Instead we kept an eye out for the Police, not to mention The Cars around us, while taking in the Electric Light Orchestra displayed in the sky above us and feeling the opposite of the Moody Blues surround us.
Even on a rainy day, the yellow was INXS.
Shortly after Leroy Brown began to look like a jigsaw puzzle with a couple of pieces gone, we got a hankerin’ for a hunka somethin' good.
In other words, we were hungry and ready to stop for some vittles.
So I pushed a few buttons on our handy dandy GPS and before you know it, we had the nearest McDonald’s in our crosshairs.
What? Did I fail to mention something?
BOOYA!
That’s right. We done got ourselves a real bonified GPS, baby!
I am the Redneck GPS no more.
A GPS was one of the only things on DH’s Christmas list last year. Wonder why that is? Maybe he got tired of me equating two inches with eighty miles and advising him to “take the red road right after we turn off the green one”.
And yes, I know that picture shows that Mrs. GPS is under the impression that we’re riding on top of the water. Instead of on the bridge. And although we strive to do what Jesus would do in our every day lives, trust me when I say we were NOT walking on water.
Also, in case you were wondering, no. I didn’t buy the GPS at a deeply discounted salvage store. With “slight smoke and water damage”. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It just apparently needs a little post Hurricane Ivan update. That’s all. Or at least something reflecting the location of the newly built Pensacola I-10 bridge.
But don’t think this wasn’t a Kodak moment for us. “Look kids! That crazy GPS thang thinks we’re in the water and not on the bridge! Hang on, lemme take a picture!”
Yet another one of those reasons you never want to take a road trip with us.
DH was extremely happy about not having to rely on my sub par map reading skillz on this trip and I was extremely happy about not having to decipher a road atlas anymore. Mainly because reading anything, even Randy McNally for any amount of time in the car, makes me feel the need.
The need to heave.
Speaking of which. Back to McDonald’s.
We took our exit, came down the ramp and right about the time we pulled into the parking lot and heard Mrs. GPS tell us we were “arriving at
destination” ( I love the way she says that word), the heavens opened up and it really began raining hard. Harder than it had been all day. Harder than Chinese arithmetic. Heck, harder than fourth grade arithmetic. But it wasn’t just a thunderstorm we were dealing with here. This was what’s known in our neck of the woods as an electrical storm. Meaning: lightning bolts were a dime a dozen just outside the safety of our ride.
I hate lightning. Hate it. It scares the mess out of me. And as much as I hate it, our children hate it even worse. Ever since Katrina, they’ve been pretty scared of bad weather. Both of them, but especially the boy, look to the skies with extremely heavy hearts and praying lips when a bad storm rolls in and they are not able to breathe easy until it’s passed. And they realize that everything is okay. Once again.
I won’t go into much detail about what went on in our minivan as we sat in the parking lot of that McDonald’s and tried to convince our children that once the rain slacked up, it would be okay for them to jump out and run five feet into the side door of the restaurant.
But I may have told the boy “Gimme three steps, gimme three steps, mister. Gimme three steps towards the door.”
And he may have answered “I’ll tell you once more… before I open this door… don’t bring me down.”
I’m glad to announce we safely made it inside without a single one of us being struck by lightning. We were all pretty much soaked to the bone though. We looked like we’d just spent three hours at Typhoon Lagoon. Caught in a six footer. Fully clothed.
Once inside, we went straight to the bathroom and attempted to dry off a little bit. It’s been years since I’ve held my head under a hand dryer in the ladies’ restroom. Ahhh, memories. After a couple of minutes, we realized the damage was extensive and trying to dry off was just a colossal waste of time. So we did the best we could by blotting the rain off our arms, legs and faces and headed out front to place our order and find a seat.
With our flip flops squeaking the whole way. Looking like a bunch of drowned rats.
As we ordered, found a table and began to eat (and shiver!), we were amazed to see the amount of people pile in behind us. I think everyone within a fifty mile radius decided to stop and eat at that particular McDonald’s. As the line wrapped around our table (twice), headed outside to wrap around the building (thrice) and finally ended somewhere in Xanadu, I began to wonder just how many of those people were heading the same place we were heading.
My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of our daughter’s voice.
Oooooh, look, Mama! They’ve got Disneyworld toys!
In other words, we’d hit the mother lode.
Whatever that is.
Of all the toys fast food establishments give out, the ones from Disney are the straight up MACK DADDY in our house. I’m guessing it’s probably the same in yours as well. They easily trump any of that other poorly made mess that eventually finds its way into the bottom of our garbage can and on this day, the kids were so excited to find that the toys in their Happy Meal were a couple of pirates and princesses. Of the Disney variety. Also cooler than cool was the fact that the Happy Meal box itself advertised the Walt Disney World Resort’s Pirate and Princess party.
Oh yeah baby.
I couldn’t have asked for a better setup that day.
They had
no earthly idea what the Pirate and Princess party was, but they knew Disneyworld was involved.
And that’s all they needed to know to know they needed to go.
The girl:
(In the saddest voice imaginable) I wish we could go to the Pirate and Princess party.
The boy: Girl
(he may have called her by her given name, the details are a little fuzzy), the only way you can go to that is if you WIN a ticket there. See? It says so on the box. WIN a trip to the Pirate and Princess party. It doesn’t say buy a ticket. It says you have to WIN one.
The girl: I wish I could win a ticket to the Pirate and Princess party.
The boy: No kiddin’. Of course you do. It’s Disneyworld. What do you think? They even have Jack SPA-rrow there
(and yes, that’s how he says it, with extreme emphasis on the first syllable) Look. It’s Jack SPA-rrow. They don’t let just anybody in when Jack SPA-rrow is there, I’ll tell you that much.
Me: Yes, it’s a sad, sad shame about that Pirate and Princess party. Too bad we’re going to Universal this time and not STEPPING FOOT IN DISNEYWORLD.
And with that, I grinned slyly and slid my hand down to pat my pocket, which contained four tickets to none other than Disney’s own Pirate and Princess party.
Okay, I did the whole patting my pocket thing in my head. Because at that point, our tickets were still at Will Call. And I didn’t even
have pockets.
But I SO would’ve done that had I had the tickets on my person. Or at the very least, a pocket to put them in.
DH joined in on the fun by adding “You must have to really be special to score tickets to something like that. Too bad we’re not going. But we’ll have to see if they’ve got a Shrek and Dunkey party at Universal. I’m sure it’ll be just as much fun.”
DH and I exchanged glances and giggled both out loud and to ourselves. Then we put our game faces back on and proceeded to tease our children for just a little bit longer.
Because that’s what good parents do.
Although we knew full well at that point that we were taking them back to Disney, they had no clue. They were once again Oblivious and Clueless where that part of our itinerary was concerned. And that’s exactly the way we wanted it.
After last year, there was no question that we would be surprising our kids again on this trip. To be quite honest, once you’ve surprised the kids with a trip to Disney, it can become quite addicting.
For some time before we went back in October, our daughter begged to be taken back to Disneyworld. I miss Mickey was just the tip of the iceberg. She let us have it with both guns for a pretty long time. It was pitiful, really. So very pitiful. When we finally decided to go back, we could’ve just sat them down and told them we were headed back to the House of Mouse. We could’ve let them in on the planning aspect like we do every year. We could’ve sat around the table and taken turns announcing which attraction we were most looking forward to. We could’ve made our Countdown Chain, done the Joe Horn dance and started letting them earn money to put in the Mickey jar.
But we wanted to do it differently. Considering how much we knew it would mean to the kids. We decided to zip the lip. We had become Keepers of the Secret. The Ultimate Secret.
When we first started out, both my husband and I were convinced we would never make it. We just knew that at some point, we would be so swayed by a show of emotion from the kids that we would HAVE to break down and tell them. We would have to shout it from the rooftops. But as time went on, we discovered something. We discovered just how much DANG FUN it was to keep the secret. Good GRIEF, that was fun! I honestly can’t remember a period of time when my husband and I have had more fun with the kids. The inside jokes, the ones that only two people get, were flying left and right in our house for months. Much to our amusement. We were giddy. The same kind of giddy we feel right before Christmas. Around that time of year, we always know when my husband has gotten something for us that he knows we’ve been wanting. In the worst way. The very first time he launches into that little singsong voice and taunts us with “I know something you don’t know”, we know. We KNOW. You know? The playful tone of his voice lets us know that whatever it is that he’s gotten wrapped up under the tree is something that he knows will bring us great joy. And he’s more excited about it than we are. And that’s how it felt to keep the secret from the kids. The thing that made it so much fun was the realization that the thing that our kids wanted, one of the things that we knew would bring them a huge amount of joy, was essentially wrapped up and sitting underneath the Christmas tree. And they were completely oblivious to it.
And as a parent, there’s not too many feelings better than having the opportunity to surprise your children with something they’ve been pining for. It made it all worth it. Well, it was that and also the inside jokes. The ones that only two people get. Those were a heck of a lot of fun.
We pulled out all the stops. We watched our Disney vacation DVDs. We pored over Disneyworld pictures from past trips. We played our Disney CDs. Just like we would normally do. Only instead of the normal conversations we would have when everyone was in the know, we would have conversations like this…
Me: Oh, look kids. It’s Spectromagic. How AWESOME is that Spectromagic?!
Them: We love Spectromagic, Mama.
Me: Oh, listen kids. Listen to the Spectromagic music. Man, is that great or what?
Them: We love the Spectromagic music, Mama. I wish we could go back there and hear it right now, Mama.
Me: Yes, well, it’s a shame we can’t now isn’t it? Now eat your peas and hush up.
We spent several months sneaking around to make ADRs and the closer we got, my husband and I actually began to believe we may just make it. In fact, as the date neared, DH decided to get a little brazen. It started at the dinner table one night as he busted out a chorus of “19”.
Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuhnuh- nineteen.
Several nights later, he started singing Sixteen Candles as he walked in the door. No, we weren’t able to make a Countdown Chain this time, but my husband had found a way to count the days down anyway. In code. I should add the children were oblivious as to why each night their father would start singing really strange songs they’d never heard before. Which is what made it so much fun. Before long, he would have them yelling out numbers for no apparent reason.
DH: Eleven. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Say eleven, son.
The boy: Eleven.
[
DH: That was weak. Say it like you mean it, son.
The boy: ELEVEN!
DH: That’s better.
We went through this nightly. The funny thing is that our children never ONCE asked why we were having them repeat numbers and sing songs from the eighties at the dinner table. When it was finally go time, I made a Countdown Chain with only one link and put it in an oversized envelope. We also took the liberty of stuffing a couple of large bills into their Mickey jar. Normally they have to work for that souvenir money but that particular trip, we bent the rules and gave them a free ride. Because they’re our children and we love them. We woke them up at the crack of dawn that morning under the guise of taking them to a local children’s museum. When we called them in the living room, sat them down and told them that our plans had changed because the museum was closed, we handed them the big envelope to open. They cautiously opened the envelope and pulled out the countdown chain. Upside down.
And stared at it. This upside down countdown chain with only one link on it.
It took a minute or so for it to sink in. At first there was more confusion and disbelief than anything else but once they realized what was going on, they jumped into the air and screamed at the top of their lungs. There was a full on celebration complete with chair jumping and exclamations of never ending love.
NOTomCruise.
The look on their faces made everything completely worth it. The moment was awesome and we highly recommend it. It’s a very rewarding thing, that surprise. And that's how we knew from the very beginning that we would not tell them that we were going to Disney on this trip until we were heading underneath the arches. Mum was the word. It was a covert op. We were keeping it on the down low.
So we teased them a little more about the Pirate and Princess Party. Okay, maybe torment is a better word. But the way we see it, as long as we know there’s something spectacular in store for them when it’s all said and done, it’s perfectly acceptable to torment them on the way
to that something spectacular.
And yes, that’s how we roll it.
Once we’d finished eating and tormenting, we made our way back outside and jumped in our ride. And headed south. The remainder of the trip included but was not limited to some or all of the following: bad singing, seat dancing, air guitaring, children arguing, stressed out driving, and a pretty hearty round of the Spot the Universal Sign game, whose sister game, Spot the Disney Sign, was not played. NOLYMI. On account of the kids not knowing Disney was one of our destinations. Duh! They slipped up a time or two and excitedly pointed out a Disney sign (old habits die hard) only to have DH deduct 20,000 points and declare “What are yall THINKING?! We ain’t going to Disney! You better getcha head in the game and start looking for those Universal signs!” As we exchanged glances and giggled to ourselves. And each other.
I had never been more attracted to him than I was in that moment.
Points were also deducted for pointing out Café Risque’s WE BARE ALL signs.
For entirely different reasons.
We passed Mel and her big feet along the way.
And from the looks of things, homegirl was in serious need of a pedicure.
The closer we got, the more excited we got. Once we passed our first toll booth, we were giddy. Because in the same way that musty water smell represents Splash Mountain, toll booths represent a good road trip in Florida. It also means we’re almost there. We slid up to the gate, gave the attendant three dollars and got fifty cents’ change back. What seemed like roughly three miles later, we reached another toll booth. We pull up to the gate and are surprised to have the attendant hold her hand out and demand their fifty cents back.
Hello and welcome to Orlando.
I don’t know why this struck me so funny but it did. Why not just take the whole three bucks from us to begin with? Why bother with the pump fake making of the change? Just cut to the chase. Turn us upside down and shake us until all the change falls out of our pockets. Then take what you can. Give nothing back.
I amused myself for a little while with a few of those thoughts.
DH didn’t find it quite as funny as I did though. For some reason.
He was just happy to be arriving, I think.
It had been a long, stressful drive for him. The rain had been consistently heavy the entire drive down and we had passed no less than a dozen wrecks along the way. Some appeared to be fender benders but others were bad. Really bad. The kind of wrecks you pass and immediately begin to pray for the occupants and their families. It had been a long nine hours. That’s right. We made it in just over nine hours. Which left the man peeved to an extent. Because of his thing with the time. Busted time notwithstanding, we were just happy to be arriving safe and sound. And in one piece.
We made our way past the usual Disney exits (sigh) and plotted our course in a new direction.
After all that time, we were amazed that the rain came to an abrupt stop soon after we made it to Orlando.
And then off in the distance we spotted it.
It was vague and hard to make out at first but then as the minutes ticked by, the colors of the rainbow grew vivid and unmistakable. Besides the faces of our newborn babies, it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. It was huge. It spanned the sky starting on the right and seemed to roll and jump in front of our very eyes and then suddenly the end of the rainbow was visible on the left side as well.
The kids had only seen rainbows in pictures prior to this day. Never right in front of them. In full blown Technicolor. And as excited as they were about reaching our destination, I think they were even more excited about seeing that rainbow.
That beautiful, awe inspiring rainbow.
This past year has been a particularly stressful one for our family. Everyone is healthy and happy and we all still love each other dearly. But there were a lot of uncertainties and many more stresses than usual. Most of them tied to our jobs. To put it bluntly, it had been a pretty long year for both me and my husband. This spontaneous vacation was about getting away from it all for us. For just a few days. We were eagerly anticipating being able to put our stressors in a box and throw away the key for just a little while.
And as we finally ran out of the storm and were greeted with this beautiful vision that God created spanning the sky before us, we were reminded of His promise and His provision for us. And in that instant, it all came together. Like a flood. The storms, the rainbow, the long year behind us, the stresses, the new beginnings that lie before us on the road ahead. The unchartered territory just waiting to be experienced on the other side. We knew that everything would turn out exactly the way it was supposed to. We knew it would be great. Better than great, even. And we knew that this vacation, this time of family togetherness, would be a truly blessed one.
A blessed one indeed.
And with that, we smiled and left the stress behind us. Where it belonged. And we set off to find our pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Figuratively. Not literally.
Up Next: Tracy is the the new Stacy. 
I think my arm would slap fall off. Into the skillet. Could it be that I've been doing it wrong all these years? Nah. I do it the way my Mama taught me. Which is the same way her Mama taught her. So it's gotta be right. Matter of fact, all of this talk about roux is making me crave a big pot of gumbo. Might have to whip some up this weekend. Minus the appendage, of course. 
)
