It has been about a week since our family vacation. For four days, we roosted in the mountains of Pennsylvania about an hour northwest of Gettysburg. This vacation was just as much about life experiences as it was about R&R. For starters, the rigors of camping increase tenfold when you include an accident-prone toddler. And though no trips to the emergency room were necessary, I can firmly attest that boxed wine for this traveling mom was the best kind of preventative medicine.
It only took us six hours, three stops, and two diaper changes to make it to Burnt Cabins, Pennsylvania. For three nights we stayed in a rented RV (which was very reminiscent of My Name is Earl). Within a mere hour of arriving, Max managed to fall out of the camper door and Kenny’s pit stop in the camper’s restroom made it impossible for anyone to stay inside for any longer than you could hold your breath. My name may not be Earl, but it sure was fun pretending. I’ll take polyester curtains and bad cable television over a leaky canvass tent any day.
It didn’t take long to discover that feeding my family on the cheap was still pretty darn expensive on the open road. Turnpike Starbucks just isn’t economical for two adults and a handful of teenagers. Even Kenny can eat only so many marshmallows and chocolate bars. I’m certain I saw a tear in Max’s eye when I finally managed to scare up some fresh broccoli on our second day.
One thing that I had hoped would happen on our trip to Gettysburg, but didn’t, was some type of ghostly encounter.
Lame, I know.
After a candlelight ghost walk and a tour of one of the most haunted homes in downtown Gettysburg, it seems the only ambiguous ghostly experience we were destined to have was the face of our kitten Leonard (note: who is still very much alive) in a timeworn windowpane. It was probably just a foreshadowing of the litter box stench that would greet us at our front door upon our return home.
By Friday evening, Kenny had had enough.
By Friday evening, Kenny had had enough.
“Can’t we just ride those horses and wheelchairs?” he pleaded.
On our final night, Houdini Max figured out how to escape his port-a-crib. I can now add to my list of life lessons how I managed to read a book, hold my plastic wine glass, and push the Billy goat that is my youngest son back into bed with one foot.
It was as I was urging him back into bed one final time that I had my “aha moment,” though not as profound as any of Oprah’s. My moment was the realization that if we spent any more money on this family vacation, we might well be living in our own RV if we didn’t go home soon.
Next time we head back to Gettysburg, I’m going to brush up on my Civil War history and spend more time in the battlefields than I did in Friendly’s getting ice cream. Also, I think I’ll stay in a location not as out-of-the way as Burnt Cabins Grist Mill—preferably one that has a pool. I’m all for historical, but those hairpin turns on Route 533 with a van full of kids in the dark of night was exhausting.
I wonder, when my kids are older and John and I are gone, what parts, if any, will our kids recall? I hope this is trip leaves a sweet memory. As for feeding them until our next payday, I hope they still like marshmallows because it’s the only food we managed to bring home.
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