sainted vacation dad + t-rex road trips
When I was a kid, our family vacations more or less played out something like the Griswolds. While we never went to Wally World or Europe, we had our fair share of kookyness happen at the hundreds of historical sites, forts and presidental homes that my mother loved to frequent. Other children got to go to the beach or amusement parks; we stared at cannons and wore matching jumpers at pioneer reenactments.
I think back and give the greatest credit to my poor father, traveling with four women of all ages and hormone levels. He put up with our constant questions, arguments and even that one time that we made him listen to the cassette tape of the “Anne of Green Gables” musical soundtrack all the way from Prince Edward Island back home to Ohio. On top of all of this, about every 15 minutes, he would hear this:
“Daaaaad! I have to GO! Can we stop at McDonald’s?”
“We just stopped at that rest stop 20 minutes ago. Why didn’t you go then?”
“Because I didn’t have to go then! But I really gotta go now!”
“I swear….(mumble mumble mumble possible swear word). I should just let you pee your pants.”
(And to our own credit, we often used these impromptu McDonald’s bathroom stops to wheedle fries and ice cream out of my parents. My sisters and I are nothing if not champion multi-taskers.)
I saw this Dinosaur Comic this morning and it made me think of my dad (while the second driver described is definitely me — just ask any person who has ever driven anywhere with me. I have made a lot of people stop at farmers’ markets.).
[Comic credit here]