Prison break.

It's either age, dementia or kids (maybe even erectile dysfunction) that has gotten me to the point where I can't remember one friend's wedding from another. What once seemed so important and exciting has suddenly faded into distant memories that start with a big poofy dress and end with a big poofy cake. Such is the difference between being 20something and 30something. But when a weekend wedding means your first night alone with your husband in nearly two years, suddenly a wedding starts to look like a conjugal visit. It's just that memorable.

And so my conjugal visit begins this Friday at 5:30 when my flight takes off to Connecticut. Captain Kid gets to play pirate with the grandparents for the weekend. It gives us many questions to ponder...

1. Will the Captain sleep through the night?


2. What if he gets scared while I'm gone?


3. What if he's hurt or confused and will my parents be able to comfort him?

If you answered "The Mediocre Mama doesn't give a shit," then you're right!

Oh, come now. Don't think badly of me. My parents raised me just fine and I doubt they can do very much damage over a 2 day period. Of course, there was the bad haircut they gave me as a kid. Not sure I ever recovered from that one...oh wait.

So now I go through the drama of what's going to fit my new post-mama figure and how will I survive a whole night in heels. Problems that seem rather insignificant compared with the bullshit minutia of my current everyday. And all I can do is smile and daydream about my 2 nights of freedom.

Yes, I believe this will be a wedding that I remember. Almost as much as the last wedding I attended...

Holy internet, Batman.

Son of a bitch, I love the Internet. Who knew in this day and age that it would be so friggin' impossible to have access. As it would happen, the south of Spain hates the Internet even more than the French and Italians do, and at 1 euro for 12 minutes to access the hotel lobby Internet, I decided that I could not put that kind of premium on my Muse (she's a crazy little bitch).



Which all would have been fine, but for the fact that we moved back into our house on Monday and Verizon didn't install the FIOS until this afternoon. Not to mention the fact that my computer is currently sitting somewhere in a box in DC, awaiting customs clearance (I assure you, they have top men looking into it).



So here I sit, with a list of blog topics about 20 items long just not knowing where to start. I can offer a few previews, just to wet your appetite, but I do need to wrap my brain around it all in a more calm and less humid fashion. It might take me a couple of weeks to catch my breath. But as promised, a preview:

1. The Captain loses his best friend, the television;


2. Headbanging - it's not just for teenagers anymore;


3. Luggage carts - they're not just for luggage anymore;


4. From Germany to NY - Sprechen Sie Noisy Toddler?;


5. Like a bull in a china shop - aka, like a Captain in a cheesy tourist shop;


6. A day at the water park, or, the Captain's 18 euro trip to stand in a puddle;


7. Sevilla - "To drive the undrivable streets;"


8. On returning home - house woes, daycare woes, job woes...welcome back Kotter;


9. More fabulous places where strollers suck; and


10. A Spaniard in America...the Captain meets the fast food nation.

Alright, chew on that for a night. Must go watch 700 channels of television, all broadcast in English! My head is spinning. Nighty.

Packing heat.

Yes, we're packing and yes, it's hot, hence the title of an otherwise incoherent post. It's 1:15 am, the Captain's snoozing away in his travel crib, the Dad is packing like a fiend (last minute, naturally), and yours truly is backing up computers...do you know where your children are? So since I lose my Internet connection tomorrow and will likely only have sporadic coverage at best over the next 3 weeks, I want to get in some last licks as a just in case.

On moving. CK came to the realization that "something's up" today when he saw his crib disassembled and most of his toys packed up. In our defense, we have been doing this slowly...a couple more toys each day. But he's been as oblivious to the missing toys as he is to the missing Dog. So it was a bit of a shock when he had a "wait a moment" moment earlier this evening. I took him downstairs to shield him from the trauma, but he pretty much was flipping out and attempted to jump into the pool. He chilled out eventually and seemed amused by the flying nuts and bolts.

On Father's Day. I really should do a much bigger tribute here, but I'm tired and punchy, and have boxes all over the place. So I leave you with this amusing article sent by a half-crazed friend who is studying for the bar exam. It probably helps with your enjoyment to have this bit of information. .

On lead paint. Is it wrong that I find this whole Thomas Train recall so darn amusing? Probably because I don't own any. And don't get me wrong, I have many less than mediocre friends and relatives furiously going through their collections as I type this. But what I find to be such a kicker is that for such an insanely expensive item like Thomas trains they are (a) being produced in China and (b) covered in lead paint. I would kill to know the markup on this junk.

On other crap. I am sure that I will find a minute or two to ramble on some more tomorrow, but it's looking a bit grim. I'm not sure how all my readers will survive without my mediocrity (or at least sporadic slices of it) for the coming weeks, but if it helps you fill the time, I recommend taking up some mediocre activities of your own. Here are some suggestions, but this is by no means an exhaustive list. Feel free to post if you can think of some more, but please keep it absolutely half-assed:

1. Needlepoint;


2. Paint by numbers;


3. Watch seasons 1-8 of Charmed (pretty much what I did my first 6 months here);


4. Read The Bridges of Madison County;


5. Go see an Andrew Lloyd Webber tribute concert;


6. Eat at an Applebees;


7. Attend a Natalie Merchant concert;


8. Sort through, and watch, your VHS tapes;


9. Watch the Higglytown Heroes; or, if you're really feeling saucy


10. Start a crappy blog of your own.

Hopefully, one more blog tomorrow. But if not, have a mediocre Father's Day.

In search of the great out side.

It was once really cute.

Captain, you want to get your shoes and socks? Answer: out side.

Captain, where do helicopters fly? Answer: out side.

Where do you want to go, sweetie? Answer: out side.

See? Adorable, huh? It's seemingly the answer to most questions and fits just fine. Yet, somewhere in the south of France it stopped being adorable.

In the Captain's mind, "out side" has taken on a grander meaning. It's in the car. It's out of the car. It's up a staircase. It's in the pool. It's in a closet. In fact, "out side" now means whatever it is he wishes to be doing. Which is why the Dad and I were utterly confused as he had a tantrum around dinner time the other night whilst we were chillin in southern France. Normally we wouldn't have been so indulgent to discover the true hidden meaning, but when he started pounding his fists and having yet another tantrum in the middle of a dinner party, we became determined to shut him up. Defeated and feeling completely mediocre, yet aware that the only way he would settle down would be with food in his tummy, we followed him all over the 9th century domaine to find out where the fuck out side was.

First it was by the pool. Then it was inside. Then it was out in front of the domaine. Then it was in the car, sitting in his car seat. Then it was out of the car for a brief moment, only to be quickly followed by it being inside the car. Then we went back into the house, climbed stairs. At times out side was at the top of the staircase. Then it was at the bottom. It was under a table. It was in Dad's arms. On and on and on, all the while chasing him with hamburger on a fork, praying for him to take one bite and stop crying.

Perhaps in a toddlers mind, out side is about what can be. I mean, we really do make it sound so great. It's the place where young dreams are made. It's where playgrounds live and fresh air is free. It's where you find bottle caps and other trash just lying on the ground like a prize to be claimed. But like Dorothy over the rainbow, the Captain always seems to be chasing his heart's desire, which is always moving, always someplace where he is not, always something out of reach, and never in the comfort of Mama and Dad's arms. Oh, I know that he won't spend every second of every day running to find out side and that eventually there will be days where he even enjoys the comfort of sitting still.

Then again, maybe toddlers aren't so different from grownups. I mean, who amongst us isn't still searching for out side?

Vive la toddler.

As anyone might have guessed by the eerie silence and cobwebs collecting on my blog, yes we did make it to Southern France. It's true, there are times where I believed you might be hearing from me sooner as we had many conversations about cutting out early, but I'm glad we stayed and now we can tick it off the Captain's "you never take me anywhere" list. He even has a new t-shirt to prove it.

I suppose I should back up a minute, however. By the day we left, I was aching and miserable and the Captain had broken out in a full body rash. The road trip, which began at noon and ended at around 7pm, was pretty much what we expected. Dad grumpily driving the whole trip because I never developed the love for the standard transmission, the Captain only conking out for about a 50 minute nap, Mediocre Mama whaling out choruses of "William Wants a Doll" and "Doe a Deer." Probably about 2 hours of serious whining total. We actually felt lucky.

We arrive at the domaine and it is exactly as explained, a beautiful 9th century domaine with former monastery and all the death traps you could desire for your toddler. You can check out the vitals here with photos. The Dad and I were given a cozy little room with single beds we shoved together with blankets in between for the inevitable hopping into bed the young Captain would be doing. Of all the travel missteps, sleeping fell #1 on the list.

As a rule, the Dad and I do not let Captain Kid sleep in our bed. We've seen the pitfalls and though we know many who swear by it, it's just not our style. The one and only exception to said rule is during travel, mostly because he ALWAYS wakes up in the middle of the night and enjoys the novelty of going, "Hey, isn't that Mediocre Mama and Deviant Dad lying there? Perhaps I'll scream my head off and they will feel embarrassed enough by the noise to let me into bed." And so, we felt doubly embarrassed when he did it in the middle of the night with our gracious hosts next door, so he slept with us for much of the trip. All of which wouldn't matter so much, except his sleep habits are looking more and more like the WWF these days, complete with jumping on top of us, lunging off the bed, and full on kicking that I'm not even sure he's awake for. Thus, I ended the trip with bruises up my rib cage and on my chin.

What's worse, of course, is that his usual 11-12 hours of sleep a night was looking more like 6 or 7 in his strange environs, making him crabby and more surly than usual. Which wouldn't be a problem, but for the fact that the word "no" sent him into perpetual tantrums, a little bit more dangerous in a 9th century domaine with lots of stone floors and rough edges. One morning we declared it was breakfast time, cooked for him, and he decreed that he wanted to go "out side" (more on that in tomorrow's exciting post). So we obliged, went outside for his breakfast when he re-affirmed "out side" and pointed to the grass and pool." We said, "No, breakfast first." And so began the hour and a half long temper tantrum that only ended when we shoved him back into bed and he passed out for the next 3 hours. As it turns out, other locations in a 9th century domaine that, as a rule, are not good for toddler tantrums include treacherous staircases with a sundial strategically placed at the bottom of the staircase, sort of acting like a spear if you had a really bad fall, next to a pool with no fence, on the ledge overlooking the vineyards with about a 10 foot drop off, and generally in close proximity to gracious friends who are attempting to relax on vacation.

Sigh. Que sera.

Crash test dummy.

I don't get what the big deal is about being diapered. I mean, he knows he's uncomfortable, he asks to be changed. So why is it that the Captain can struggle so hard that he and the changing pad nearly went careening off the table today?

From the tender age of about, oh, 3 weeks, we've been forced to use the safety straps on the changing pad. As evidenced by other tales of his restlessness, clearly this kid doesn't like to sit still for much of anything. So I'm not quite sure how this happened but it somehow involved pushing his foot off the wall whilst I held his other foot for changing him and thank goodness I was holding it because the next second he's just dangling there by his foot. It begs the question...is it illegal to duct tape a toddler to a changing table? It made me ponder the possibilities...

It also presents another issue. Should I lug his changing pad with me around Spain and France over the next month? Diapering him freestyle is nearly impossible and requires the power of 2. We are driving, so it's not out of the question. But it is bulky and a pain in the arse to pack. Our latest travel plans have changed and now we're flying back from Seville to Valencia (saving us about 8 hours of driving - yipee), but I don't know that I have room in the luggage and I really hate to pitch it on the way home because it cost us $40. Not to mention there does come a time where you have to say enough is enough on crap you lug with you. Right now our packing list for the Captain looks like this:

• 1 pack n play



• 1 bath seat (because it's like giving a bath to a cat otherwise)



• clothes



• regular diapers and wipes



• swim gear (including swim diapers, floaties and additional floatation devices)



• beach accouterments (pale, shovel and whatnot)



• books



• toys (soft ones that he can't make too much trouble with, so therefore they are plusher and bigger than regular toys)



• baby pillow



• baby blankets



• stroller



• folding highchair (because restaurants don't have their own)



• harness backpack (why do we even bother?)



• car seat

All this is fine and good for driving, but I feel like we're pushing that 20 kilo limit for air travel hard and fast. If I were back in the states I probably wouldn't be pushing it with everything I'm bringing, but I (a) don't want to pay to use a travel crib at 10 euros a night in some places and (b) don't want to rely that their equipment is in good condition, what with our experiences on various sleeping deathtraps throughout Italy. See my Top Ten list for a brief refresher.

Yes, I realize this all seems rather "alpha mom" of me, but my hands are tied. This is why I had a fabulous idea months ago about a baby supply rental place that will never come to fruition because I'm too much of a slacker to get off my ass and start a company. Maybe the more practical idea would be to bring all the baby stuff and ship the baby.

Riding in cars with noise.

Given all I've had to say about the Captain's high energy levels, you would think that the Dad and I would, say, avoid things like 30 hours worth of road tripping within a 3 week period. But since I am (a) mediocre at this job and (b) a glutton for punishment it should come as no surprise that I am doing just that. So next week begins

The Mediocre Family's Epoch Battle to Travel (once again)

This time, it's personal.

First stop, southern France.

Now this should be fun. My very good friends, I'll call them the Scottish-Argentinian-Italians or the Satalian family for short, have been kind enough to open their luxurious French countryside rental to us. Now, I must be careful, as they are reading this, but I will admit that I have one or two worries. First, it is a rental villa with, um, nice stuff in it. In fact, the website describes it as a "superbly imposing 9th century domaine." If there's one thing the Captain could easily wipe out with one swift hand, it's a superbly imposing 9th century domaine. Not sure that childproofing is a big factor when designing a domaine. Second, the Satalian's are contemplating parenthood, and though the sweet Captain of last summer who visited them in Scotland and convinced them that parenting is the bee's knees is still at times good, I have great fears that he's liable to put them off parenting permanently. For more information, see my cousin's comment in yesterday's post. But for real, they were hooked when they spent time with him last summer and by all accounts will be as good at parenting as we are, as evidenced by this photo of them making him pound Scottish Whiskey.








I guess I just don't want to do anything to ruin that enthusiasm.

Now, our second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth stop will be a few days later when we tour southern Spain. This is where we've clearly gone crazy.

The Dad planned a fairly aggressive itinerary which includes Granada, Marbella, Gibraltar, Seville, Cordoba and Garrucha. This is a trip he has wanted for some time, despite my constant worries that it's too much for the Captain, and therefore us. So yesterday we came up with a compromise - we dropped Cordoba from the itinerary. Woo hoo, 2 less hours of driving. So all said we're going to be doing about 16 or 17 hours of driving on this trip, including days of touring hilly cities where the Captain will be trapped in the stroller. Thinking about getting one of those Hannibal Lecter devices. I'm not so worried about the beach days we've planned, it's the rest of it that scares me. First, I'm still suffering from Post Traumatic Chunk Syndrome from our little mishap a few weeks ago. Second, not exactly the comfort-mobile...it's a Ford. Third, we're trying to figure out what would be more irritating - listening to him scream for a 4 hour stretch or listening to kids music for a 4 hour stretch. I'm deeply conflicted.

Which brings me totally off the topic (as usual)...why is kids music so friggin irritating and why does it always pop into your brain at the wrongest of times? It is supremely hard to mourn at a funeral when you've got "Bob the Builder" title music running through your brain. Even worse is during sex. I assure you, nothing can ruin a sexy "moment" like suddenly hearing Goofy in your head singing out "Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggidy dog."

But alas, I do believe it's going to be a 4 hour loop of "Free to Be, You and Me" in the car. Which isn't all bad. Except when you're trying to make it with your man and you keep singing "William wants a Doll" in your head.

Mama if that's moving up then I'm...

Moving out.

As I sit here typing (minus one shift key thanks to a mild temper tantrum the Captain had yesterday), I can't believe I've lived in Spain almost a year to the date and that, sadly, I'll be back stateside in a little more than a month. The Captain was just a wee-Private when we left home and had literally just started to crawl.

Why is that, by the way? Is that the Murphy's Law of toddlers...if you are packing up your entire house and not baby proofed then your toddler is certain to start crawling? It was fabulous.

Anyway, though our departure will be soon, I am certain that our next adventure will give me mucho to blog about (assuming we can get Internet connections where we're heading). This is how the plan is shaking down if we can swing it...

1. Dad works for the next couple of weeks;
2. We attempt a meet up with friends in the south of France for about 5 days;
3. Back to Valencia to pack up, rest up, work and chill;
4. Two weeks traveling around southern Spain by car;
5. Fly home or possibly to my parents house a few hours from home to steal their automobile in the night, seeing as how we sold all our worldly possessions when we moved;
6. Move back into house (which is rented out until June 30th);
7. Dad goes back to his home office; and finally
8. The Mediocre Mama finds a job.

Eek.

"Captain Chunk"

The Dad has secured 2 whole days off from work, which is why I've been somewhat out of writing commission the last few days. We took a great drive to the beach, followed by a horrifying ride back. After a day of hot dogs, milk, eating sand and running on the beach, it was inevitable. A mere 5 minutes from home, the Captain projectiled all over the back seat of the car.

For me, the worst part is avoiding that compulsion to run and hide. Kid or no kid, no one wants to be anywhere near that. I remember back in college I had a particularly bad bout of food poisoning and had to funk up the bathroom I shared with 5 girls. I taped up a skull and cross bone on the door and put up a friendly message. Stay away, but if you could just occasionally open my bedroom door and make sure I'm not dead that would be great.

So last night our entire evening off turned to disinfecting and fabric cleaning. And try though I might explain to my in-laws that the only thing that will get the odor out of the car is time, they are still on a vigilante mission to disinfect. Like I hadn't already tried that.

This is not the first time the young Captain blew his chunks, but the last time ended with a rage and prayer for the downfall of Iberia airline. Back in November, the Captain and I had to return to the East Coast to spend some time with my grandmother before she passed away. A dear friend had been visiting me and accompanied me on my travels back. Though the Captain is a handful, he was incredible on the 8 hour flight and over the first 6 hours had managed to enchant all of coach class. But two hours before landing the vomiting started and it just went on and on.

After the first round of vomiting I brought him to the back of the plane to change his clothes, where I was greeted with a friendly flight attendant who asked me to take my seat due to light turbulence. I mean, what the fuck, can't I just clean my child? They refused to let me clean him or myself off and made us take our seats, puke covered and all. Then it just continued and he got sick 4 more times. Dear Friend graciously removed her shirt from under her vest so that I would have something less funky to wear and I changed right there in my seat. As for the Captain, I changed him out of his outfit 3 times until I had no more clothes. We had airline blankets covered in his puke and carry on luggage had cooties. Finally, friendly flight attendant made his way back over to me. Noticing the desperate situation, he did what any friendly flight attendant would do and flung a stack of airsick bags at me. What the fuck am I supposed to do with these, tell him to aim it?

In the end I dragged the Captain off the plane and had him wearing nothing but a diaper and an airline blanket. He spent an additional 4 hours throwing up, miserable and shaking and I naturally caught the bug 2 days later. But upon leaving the airplane, I blissfully left 4 puke covered blankets on the floor so that when they said, "You have a good day now," I could reply, "Oh, I will."

Traveling through Europe with Toddlers and Other Fairly Stupid Ideas.

After traveling around Europe with the Captain over the last year, I've learned a thing or two. First, it often sucks. Second, you better be damn sure before you take it on. But if you're like me and the Dad, there is very little that can deter you from giving into that wanderlust. You may have the absolute worst time of your life, but pride and desire makes you believe "I think I can" and you don't care just how bad a time you might have. So I offer the following tips for anyone else out there who is stupid enough to try:

1. There is no such thing as a high chair in Europe. If you want one, better lug along your own. I recommend this handy Eddie Bauer seat;


2. Milk is a luxury in some places. If you are still bottle feeding your baby or even if you're on sippy or straw cups, bring a fresh bottle down to breakfast, fill er up at the cereal bar and put it in your room's mini-fridge. Bring small boxed milks (a la irradiated kind) and buy them at any market you find them along your travels. You would be shocked how hard they are to find;


3. Strollers and ancient ruins do not mix well. I cannot stress this one enough;


4. Watch out for ugly Americans. They are the only one's giving you dirty looks when your toddler is going bonkers;


5. If you are able to, bring your own portable crib. You will be shocked at how many of these hotels put out death traps on wheels and how badly that can fuck up your night's sleep as you worry that Junior Mint won't make it out alive. Also, beware of hotels that charge you extra for the portable crib;


6. Make your own cocktail hour! Inevitably you will discover that when all those fancy European-types are sitting at cafes and bars, you will be sitting in your hotel room giving Junior Mint some much needed playtime. Why be left out? Bring your own bottle opener, borrow some hotel wine glasses and get blitzed whilst the kiddo is tearing apart the Gideon bible;


7. Tipping, it's not just for Americans anymore. Nothing can smooth over a really bad dinner out like a nice fat tip. It will also alleviate your embarrassment about all the food he's thrown on the floor;


8. A solution to that toddler who pulls off his shoes...just bring a pair of dad's stinky socks. Chuck them over Junior's shoes. They will make it harder for him to get his shoes off and provide the proper level of embarrassment to Junior for his/her malfeasance;


9. Invest in a white noise machine. Not only will it diminish the noises outside your hotel room it will provide some nice cover noise for Mama and Dad to get busy; and finally


10. If all else fails and you find yourself losing your sanity, find a nice naval war museum and put him in front of a firing squad...

See where all this gets me?

Today my low key method of parenting seemingly bit me on the arse.

Alright, repeat after me: Glass and marble floors do not mix. Rinse. Repeat.

And so my Venetian glass necklace met said fate today when I didn't wrestle it from Captain Kid quick enough. To be honest, I thought the thing was unbreakable. It's hit the marble floors before. Apparently I wasn't accounting for the fast ball the Captain was throwing when it hit the ground.

What pisses me off is that it is quite literally irreplaceable. Deviant bought it for me as a surprise when we traveled to Venice back in December and it was so meaningful to me. I definitely didn't deserve it because I obviously didn't care enough about it. Really, it's so my fault. I'm obviously not mature enough to own a Venetian glass necklace.

Which brings me to another point of discussion...Venice and strollers do not mix. I was going to save this for another day, but since I'm on a roll and crying in my own glass mess, I should probably tick this one off my list.

Deviant and I took the Captain on a 3 week trip around Italy in December and we learned the hard way about all the steps in Venice. See, I knew there were bridges everywhere, but somehow that didn't scream "big-ass-staircases-to-get-over-the-bridges." So as it turns out, one should have neither children nor a handicap if they are living in Venice. On the plus side, I ate like a pig and didn't gain a pound while I was there. On the negative side, the Captain was hardly able to grab a nap what with the constant up and down on the steps, making for some rather stressful and grumpy meals while we were there.

Alright. That's all for now. Going to spend the rest of his nap scoping the Internet for a suitable replacement necklace. Perhaps I will replace it with a Venetian plastic necklace instead...