There's No Place Like Home

Sometimes it’s necessary to take a vacation after you’ve been on vacation.  I know, because our last one was a doozie. 

There were omens that indicated postponing our second annual trip to Gettysburg might have been best.  Aside from the usual pains of having to drive two cars to get us all there and the hassle of room accommodations that were going to cost more than our monthly mortgage payment, we also had the threat of illness clinging to us like the inevitable boogers that were to follow. 

Vacation day eve, Max woke up with a cough that I knew was the precursor to a nasty asthma flare-up.   

cough cough sniff. 

cough cough sniff. 

Catchy or not, this was not a chorus I wanted to hear on our family vacation.  In the darkest place of my mind (where the benefit of a flashlight and a gun is preferred), I thought if I could just envision the worst, then somehow I could prevent it from happening.

Packing Max’s nebulizer “just in case” was brilliant.  And even though his asthma had lay dormant since the first day of the older kids’ summer vacation, I had opted to remain safer rather than, well, sorry.   

More brilliant, perhaps, would have been the foresight to pack a hefty supply of albuterol, instead of the five puny vials I negligently chucked in the bag. 

With every passing mile marker, my grip on the steering wheel tightened as I watched Max serenade me from his car seat one row back. 

His wheezing and my neurosis collaborated for nearly three hours before I signaled for John to pull over.   Halfway to our destination, we gave Max the first of his rationed treatments.

“If he’s going to stress you out this entire vacation, let’s just turn around and do this another time.  No one is going to have fun if you’re freaking out.”

Knowing what kind of resistance the rest of the family would put up, I bit my lip and did what any other good mother would have done--I unhooked Max’s car seat and plunked it into John’s truck.

With only four kids left in the van, I began to notice the existence of the other children. 

Kenny questioned when we would stop for our next meal. 

Madison, head fully back and mouth wide open, snored over the crooning of the radio. 

And Stancey, ever dark and sullen, sat in an oversized Oberlin College hoodie in the 87-degree heat.  Four hours into our trip, I was just first noticing that she was sick too.

When we finally reached our motel, I was ready to put the bad part of our vacation behind us with a single dose of ibuprofen and a dip in the pool.  And by early evening, most illnesses were under control and my sanity was hanging tight. 

When I awoke early Monday morning and was able to sit on the deck alone with a cup of coffee and a Stephen King novel, I was blissfully in full vacation mode for a full three and a half pages.  As I watched the fog churn in our Pennsylvania valley, I convinced myself today was going to be the best day ever.

And mostly, it was chock full of “this doesn’t suck so bad!” moments.  Sure Max was still wheezing and Stancey still sullen, but Kenny’s enthusiasm for the children’s battlefield tour was priceless.  When he heard that Civil War soldiers sometimes ate bacon for breakfast too, he squealed in barefaced delight.

“Bacon!  I love bacon!  A LOT!”

That night, as John and I reflected on the comical moments of the day, we decided maybe two nights in Gettysburg was enough.  We’d do one final battlefield walk and head back to our Yankee flatlands of home.

But tomorrow morning came earlier for John.  As he staggered into my room the following morning looking less than rested and ultimately dehydrated, he revealed that the final funny of our vacation came in the form of food poisoning.

Driving a van full kids ranging from age three to seventeen, I made it back to Ohio in record time.  I’m sure there’s a ”Wife of the Year” award out there for me, even though John continues to assure me that leaving him in the service plaza two hours from home so he could rest was the right thing to do.

Some vacations are relaxing, while others remind you that coming home is really the best part of all.  Oz or Gettysburg, it’s all the same.  There’s no place like home.