AN EXTRAORDINARY LIST - PART 2

We joined an art class at a cool museum run by ex-patriot New York artists

We danced in fountains on a steaming hot day … aah!

We watched the sun set over the desert from our very own front porch

We faced a live scorpion in our cabin before it was released into the wild by Daddy

We traveled 650 feet underground into a salt mine

We touched the nose of a real stealth bomber (well, four of us touched it, William kissed it)

We stood under an Apollo rocket

We slept in luxurious bed and breakfasts, rustic cabins, high end hotels, low end motels, and slightly frightening motels

We found and fell in love with a kitten, then returned her to her mother

We rescued many turtles

We encountered a poisonous water moccasin and ran away

We faced vicious dogs

We bought mace to spray the vicious dogs

We rode along the Potomac on the Mount Vernon Bike Path

We visited the birthplace of Popeye the Sailor Man

We sat under swarms of hummingbirds feeding on sugar water and listened to the hum of their wings

We crossed the Continental Divide

We stood inches from a gorgeous tiger who chuffed at us – in greeting we hoped.

We zip-lined in the forest treetops and over a waterfall

We walked in the footsteps of Thomas Jefferson

We explored the world’s largest cave system in Mammoth Cave

We spent two nights in the Cooper’s Shop of a living museum village and had the whole place to ourselves after hours

We woke to the sound of mooing cows

We helped docents make sweet smelling headache bags and were thanked by receiving the gift of one that perfumed our car for the rest of the trip

We rode a real paddle-wheeler down the Ohio River

We were surprised with a visit from far flung relatives who traveled hundreds of miles to see us

We watched all four ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ movies

We drove along the splendor of the Blue Ridge Highway

We crossed the Ohio River on the last remaining free ferry

We ate the best crab cakes in Maryland (the hotel manager said they would be, and they were)

We bicycled across the mighty Mississippi River

We watched Daddy on television

After 3,713 miles, we crossed the finish to the cheers of friends and family

 

For Gene's very different view of the same journey, check out his blog at www.ConnorsArmy.blogspot.com
To learn more about Connor's Army go to www.ConnorsArmy.org
To see exactly why we're doing this go to www.SunriseDayCamp.org
To make a tax deductible donation go to https://www.wizevents.com/register/register_add.php?sessid=1809&id=1056

IF IT’S GREEN IT MUST BE A VEGETABLE

The one of hardest things about traveling for two and a half months with an entire family in tow is keeping up the healthy diet we’re used to at home.  The temptation is eat the way you do on vacation when you throw caution to the wind, indulge your every culinary whim, and eliminate the words ‘healthy’ and ‘diet’ from your vocabulary.  Big restaurant breakfasts on warm oversized plates complete with hash browns and toast, fries with every carb-rich lunch, and Thanksgiving-size dinners every night.  Not to mention lots and lots of ice cream.

For the first week I let everyone revel in the summer vacation feeling.  After all, we were spending most of our time stuck in a minivan on the interstate.  We needed something to look forward to every few hours.  But now I’m faced with nine more weeks of living on the road in places where if vegetables even make an appearance on the menu it means canned green beans cooked to mushy perfection.

Last night I worked hard to keep my children, who love green beans from the farm stand, from making faces and calling the green mass they received at my insistence disgusting.  Although I have to admit that it was.

Today I was told about a great grocery store here in eensy-weensy Salome, Arizona that had wonderful produce.  Since this recommendation came from the New York ex-pat  who owns the funky motel we’re staying in, I allowed myself to get excited at the thought of broccoli or spinach or (dare I hope) asparagus.  By this point even the kids are excited at the thought of fresh vegetables.

We walked into the tiny all-purpose grocery, liquor, general store with hearts high and mouths watering.  I found plenty of onions.  Potatoes, too.  A few wilted stalks of celery.  Over-ripe peaches, green bananas, and some apples.

“Where are the vegetables?” my disappointed taste-buds wailed.  “We want cauliflower.  We want Brussel sprouts.  We want dark green leafy things rich in iron.”

“Be patient,” I cajoled them.  “We’re in the middle of the Arizona desert.  Fresh produce has a very different definition here.”

I put two bags of frozen mixed vegetables into my basket and dreamed of Kansas farmland.

I’M THE THIRD WHEEL ON THE BICYCLE

I’m feeling superfluous.

Today was probably the day we were most worried about.  Only three days out and Gene would be riding through some of the most barren, arid, sun-beaten desert we’ll pass through on our whole trip.  And even more distressing, there was that forty-five mile stretch between Brawley and Palo Verde with absolutely nothing, not even a rest stop, for him to get water.

He had the bladder, which holds a liter, filled with ice and three large water bottles.  But the way he’d been sucking down water on the first two days, we knew they’d never last the whole stretch.

We carefully planned.

He rose early to beat the desert heat and was on the road by 5:45am.  We were to follow at 7:15am so we could catch up with him around the thirty mile mark, after about two hours on the road, with three gallons of water and a cooler full of ice.

Imagine my panic when we awoke at 7:45am, a full half hour after we were already supposed to have left!  The kids ate breakfast while I loaded the van, but it still took me 45 minutes to get us all out of the hotel and driving down Route 78.

My stress level built with each mile of deserted sand dunes and each hour of unrelenting sun that had passed since he left.  The only thing we went by was a Border Patrol checkpoint, where the guards held back their contraband sniffing dog and assured us that my husband hadn’t looked dehydrated when he’d gone through there forty-five minutes earlier.

I breathed a sigh of relief but raced onward nonetheless, picturing him hallucinating and heading out into the desert on his bicycle to wander aimlessly until finally succumbing to the heat and leaving us to find his bleached bones months later.

I’m very good at creating vivid doom-filled fantasies.

When he finally appeared in our windshield view, there was much cheering and gathering of cold water bottles.

We jumped out of the car expecting an exhausted and water-craving man.  Instead we were met by good spirits and the information that he had plenty of water because he’d found a small place to refill his bottles, and his bladder was still contained half its icy water.

I was both relieved and disappointed at the same time.

I mean, if he didn’t need us today on this most grueling of rides where hydration could really mean the difference between life and death, why were we here?  We were supposed to be his support team, his link to water and sustenance, his spirit lifter when it all seemed too much for him.  Instead he was well equipped for all the obstacles that had come his way so far – mountains, desert, long distances, heat.  I’m very proud of him for how prepared he is for this journey.

Now I need to find my purpose and reason to be here.

DO I WANT TO BE ON TOP OR ON THE BOTTOM?

I’ve discovered that there’s a major decision to be made each day when I check into our hotel.  If it’s one of those cute old-fashioned middle-of-the-country motels with only one story, then it’s a moot point.  But if it’s got even one more story, I’m faced with a conundrum worthy of Solomon.

Do I want peace and quiet, or peace of mind?

In other words, do I want to stay on the top floor so there’s no one walking above us, or do I want to stay on the first floor so we’re not walking above anyone?  In the first instance, we have a better chance for an undisturbed night and morning; but I’m faced with the effort to keep my kids from jumping around, bouncing on the beds, leaping from bed-to-bed (a favorite forbidden activity), and being generally elephantine.  It’s exhausting and leads to yelling, so that we’re not only annoying the people below us, but also those on either side.

It’s been ten days on the road, and I have to admit that so far the selfish side of me has won out every time.  After all, once I’ve calmed down my three darlings and gotten them to sleep, the last thing I want is some heavy-footed businessman or, god forbid, a family with kids making noise above us that might wake them up.

AN UPHILL BATTLE

After they rode the first four miles with Daddy, I packed the kids into the car and took off for our much looked forward to first day.

After an uneventful and relatively level first half, we met Gene in the parking lot of a 7-11 to refill his water and give him encouragement.  To be honest, I was thinking to myself that this was pretty much like every other ride he’s done on many weekends; and after waiting an hour for him to arrive I was wondering if we should change our plans to meet halfway each day and the kids and I would just head directly to each new hotel.  Especially after he told us that he’d stopped at another 7-11 to get water and didn’t need our supply.

“He normally rides 40 or 50 miles without me bringing him provisions,” I thought.  “Why does he need us all there now when he can take care of himself?”  We headed off for the second half of the drive to our pleasant little motel in Pine Valley with thoughts of change in my head.
In each small town we passed through, I pictured him stopping to use bathrooms or replenish his water supply.  I was fairly certain our strategy would be altered by tomorrow.

Then we hit the mountains.

Twenty miles of hot arid climbing with no place to turn when in need of water or support.  Every time I had to pump the gas pedal to put the car into overdrive and listened to its struggling engine, I thought of my husband on a bicycle trying to make it up the same climb.  My husband who hadn’t been on a really grueling ride in months.  My husband who had just spent the past seven days sitting in a car for ten hours a day.  My husband who was 49 years old and not necessarily in the best shape of his life.

By the time we got to our motel, I was convinced he was sitting on the side of the road dehydrated and despairing because the mountain had beaten him on his first day.  I gave the kids lunch, filled up the water bottles with ice and cold water, and we jumped back into the car to retrace our steps on a mission of mercy.
By the time we’d driven twenty miles back, I was nearly frantic with worry.  Why hadn’t we seen him?  Had he been hit by a car and knocked into the brush at the side of the road?  Had he been overcome by water loss and rushed to some strange hospital?

The return drive was tense as I tried to hide my concern from the children, but I could sense that Sarah had many of the same thoughts.

As we passed the “Pine Valley 5 Miles” sign we caught sight of a familiar jersey up ahead.

“Daddy!” yelled all three kids simultaneously.

We stopped to offer our now not-so-needed water and support, and to hear a few quick tales of his first day’s journey- including the conversation he was having with some fellow riders as we drove past on our outward-bound search.  By the time the kids and I had gotten back to the motel and settled in he was there.  But my thoughts about changing our planned daily routine had vanished.  I’ll be meeting him halfway every day – at least until we’re out of the 100+ degree temperatures and the 4000 foot climbs.  And I’ll have lots of water with me.

A SHORT MEDITATION ON ANXIETY

Gene is nervous about starting the ride tomorrow.  Although he hasn’t said anything about it to me, I can tell because he’s channeling his anxiety about the great unknown ahead of him into unfounded worry over everything else.  The car that just successfully made a 3,000 mile journey relatively unscathed (except for the air conditioning compressor that blew because of all the bugs we didn’t clean off the grill) is a lemon that’s falling apart before his eyes.  Someone’s going to steal his bicycle from the locked bike rack on the back of the car in broad daylight in the middle of the Legoland parking lot.

I, on the other hand, am quite vocal and open about my anxieties.

I worry that chasing this dream is going to cost us more money than we’re going to raise for Sunrise.  I worry because the perfect house/cat-sitter we finally found is suddenly unnerved about staying in our house because she got bitten by a bug in our bed on her second night there and has asked us to find someone else to take over … now that we’re on the road and have to do long distance what we nearly found impossible to do when we were home.  (Note:  I can’t really blame her, though, because I’d probably react the same way if I was in her shoes sleeping in a strange house that belonged to people I don’t really know and I got eight itchy painful bites in their bed.)  I worry that, while my husband is going to lean out from cycling 3,600 miles and be in peak shape when we get home, I’m going to become a flabby mass of unhealthiness from driving in a car all day and eating every meal in a restaurant.  I worry that my children are going to turn from caring, fun-loving, agreeable people into whiney, bored, adversaries all intent on claiming the same seat and arguing for 3,600 unbearable miles.  I worry that I haven’t given any of this enough thought, and that all my plans are built upon flimsy ideas with no real knowledge or research behind them.

But mostly I worry that we’ll both be so caught up in our anxieties and our planning that we’ll miss the amazing adventure we’re about to embark upon, and the wonderful opportunity we have to slow down and spend some unprecedented time with our children and with each other.

I guess there are times when a little worry can remind us what's most important about the things we do ... or the things we're about to do.

A STORY TOLD IN NUMBERS - FINAL PART

Day Six

Hours of sleep - 3 or 4
Gushing bloody noses in the middle of the night - 1 (James)
Migraines from lack of sleep - 1 (me)
Miles driven - 285.1
Wildfires seen in the distance - 5
Miles from Mexican border - 1/4
Border Patrol checkpoints passed through - 3
Guns seen at Border Patrol checkpoints - 10
Guns not seen but present at Border Patrol checkpoints - unknown
Feet above sea level -  -16
Minutes spent watching the GPS for exact moment we went below sea level - 68
Fabulous lunches in hole in the wall Mexican cantina in El Centro - 1
Time arrived in San Diego - 2:30pm
Time hotel room will be ready - 4:30pm
Trips to Gene's Mecca (a.k.a. the actual Performance Bicycle store) while waiting for hotel room to be ready - 1
Ice creams consumed after Gene's trip to Mecca - 3
Children in the pool the moment we checked into hotel - 3
Excellent Thai restuarants found for dinner - 1

A STORY TOLD IN NUMBERS - PART FOUR

Day Five!

Time the kids woke us up - 5:30am
Miles driven when we hit the road nice and early - 692.7
Hours on the road - 12
Time zones crossed - 1
Children fooled into thinking it was earlier than it was by crossing the time zone and changing the clock when they weren't looking - 3
Trailers abandonned by the side of the road - 1
Pounds of "Cline's Famous Fudge" bought at "Cline's Famous Rest Stop" - 1
Minutes to consume said fudge - 2.5
License plates from different states found - 35 (our new record for one day!)
Casinos passed in Oklahoma - 5
Dust devils seen - 5
Dust devils actually driven through - 1
Children who want to see a tornado - 3
Children satisfied with seeing a dust devil instead of a tornado - 0
Cars on the longest train seen - 124
Funky diners eaten in for lunch on  Route 66 - 1

A STORY TOLD IN NUMBERS - PART THREE

Stats for Day Four:

Actual sleeping hours I got with Sarah kicking me all night - maybe 3
Make-your-own waffles made by the children - 3
Make-your-own waffles actually consumed by the children - 1 half, 1 quarter, and 2 bites
Hours to repair air conditioning - 3.5
Thank you's written by Sarah while waiting for the air conditioning to be repaired - 42
Thank you's remaining to be written by Sarah - about 125
Cost to repair air conditioning - $1,054
Bugs cleaned off the car's grill which caused the compressor to blow - millions!
New tires needed after mechanic repairing the air conditioning observed them to be bald - 1 (no, wait - 2)
Hours spent in K-Mart waiting for two new tires - 2.5
Food items the kids asked me to buy in K-Mart - 12
Food items bought - 4 (5 if you count the water)
Brilliant ideas conceived in K-Mart - 2 (buy a universal remote to replace the missing one from the minivan's DVD player, and buy three padded mailers to keep the Kindles and Nook in)
Brilliant ideas that worked - 1 (the universal remote didn't do the job - darn!)
Miles driven once we finally hit the road - 347.1
Hours on the road - 7.25
Time zones crossed - 1
States driven through - 3
Temperature outside the car - 101 degrees
Gratitude for repaired air conditioning - immeasureable
License plates found - 27
License plates found in parking lot before leaving the hotel - 9
Wind speed - 40 mph gusts
Sprawling wind farms rotating in the wind gusts on the Texas plains - 5.5 (one was under construction)
Tumbleweeds seen before we stopped counting - 20
Dead armiadillos - 2
Live armadillos - 0, but still hoping
Bloody noses - 1 (James)
Speed limit in Texas - 75 mph
Trips down Memory Lane - 1 (as we stopped at a rural Stuckey's in the back hills of Oklahoma and Gene relived childhood memories of road trips with his family)

A very big thank you to Cindy the office manager, Scott the mechanic, and Zane the owners of Zane's Auto Repair who got us on the road and kept us both cool and safe!

A STORY TOLD IN NUMBERS - PART TWO

Stats for Day Three:

Miles driven - 638.6
Father's Day cards given - 2
Father's Day gifts given - 3 (2 handmade coupon books and a "Hardcore Carnivore" tee-shirt purchased at Dicky's BBQ in Oklahoma where kids eat free on Sundays and the brisket is to die for!)
Movies chosen by Daddy - 5
Movies chosen by anyone else - 0
Hours on the road - 14.25
Hours without air conditioning - 6.25
Number of complaints from the kids about how hot they were - 0 (I love my children!)
Bags of ice gratefully consumed during the un-air-conditioned part of the drive - 1
Mississippi Rivers crossed - 1
Songs from the "Cars" soundtrack air guitared by William - 3
Trucks blowing their horns after seeing me playing with my arm in the wind outside the window - 1
Trucks almost hitting us - 1 (a different truck)
States driven through - 3
Boats on trailers but with no car in sight seen at the side of the highway - 2
St. Louis Arches seen - 1
Rolled hay bales - 1000's
Bright golden haze observed on meadows in Oklahoma - innumerable

A STORY TOLD IN NUMBERS - PART ONE

I started to wrote a prose- ical entry but realized that the story of our initial days can best be told in their stats.  So here are the stats for Day One/Two:

Hours late to start - 2.5
Hours on the road - 27.5
Miles driven - 1,086.3
States driven through - 6
Number of times a child threw up, aka puked, aka barfed - 2
Fill-ups - 5
Dead deer at the side of the road - 5
Wind farms turning gracefully on mountain tops - 1
Wind farm turbines seen on flatbeds on the highway - 4
License plates found in the license plate game - 33
Movies watched - 5 (plus 2 episodes of Mythbusters)
Hours slept in the car in a Pennsylvania rest stop - 4
Minutes of rain - 4.5
Numer of times windshield pooped on - 3 (only when I was driving because birds have a thing against me)
Time zones crossed - 1
911 calls made when Sarah saw a brush fire actually start next to the highway - 1
Rest stops - 7
Important items forgotten at home that Claire the housesitter is overnighting to us - 2 (webcam and laptop power cord)
Less important items forgotten at home that we aren't asking Claire to send to us - 3 (my watch, Sarah's iPod charger - she'll share Gene's - and Sarah's phone charger - she'll keep it turned off unless she needs it)
Women waving to us on the Turnpike - 1

CHANGING HORSES IN MIDSTREAM

So I was spending the day before the day before we leave (got that?  It's Wednesday and we leave Friday) barbequing in the rain for 800 middle school students; and I got a really great suggestion that completely changed the way I plan to pack.

"Wait a minute," you say.  "Go back to the beginning.  Why were you barbequing for 800 middle school students?  And why were you doing it in the rain?"

Good questions!

It all started last year when Sarah was in 6th grade.  My favorite food is ice cream and when I saw that the PTSA throws an ice cream party for the entire school on the last day of classes, I volunteered to help.  One thing led to another, and I ended up chairing the ice cream event.  It wasn't very difficult and everyone had a great time, so when they asked if I'd do it again this year, I immediately responded in the affirmative even though I knew it'd be only two days before we were leaving.  But when the notices were sent out to the entire PTSA, it turned out I had volunteered to chair not just the ice cream portion, but the entire barbeque!

Of course, true to my insane desire to never miss out on anything, I figured I could still handle it - on top of planning Carla and Rita's wedding, Sarah's benefit, and a fundraising cabaret.  And all of this was taking place within two and a half weeks of our leaving!

On the day of the barbeque it was raining, so we had to make alternative plans on the fly.  The kids were moved inside, but the barbeques themselves had to remain outrside.  And we couldn't even move them underneath the breezeway because the smoke set off the fire alarms last time they tried that.

So there I am, soaking wet in the middle of four and a half hours cooking in the rain; and one of the other moms tells me about a friend of hers who always packs for family vacations in plastic bins instead of in suitcases.  I swear that if you looked closely enough at me, you would have been able to see the giant light bulb going on above my head.

I went straight to Home Depot to buy a bunch of shoebox sized bins, and now Sarah is busy clearing toys out of the big plastic bins in the playroom.  Hey, on top of learning to do things at the last minute, I'm also learning to be flexible.

NOTHING SAYS “WE’RE DRIVING CROSS COUNTRY” LIKE A MINIVAN

I have now done something I swore I would never do and that I’m a bit ashamed to admit to.

I bought a minivan.

Well, my husband and I bought a minivan, which was a great victory for him and a huge loss for me.

You see, for the past 12 years since we moved from New York City to Long Island I’ve fought an ongoing battle against the forces of suburbia.  All my life I’ve prided myself on being different.  I’m a five foot tall, left-handed, ballet dancer and actress who spent most of her adult life living in an apartment and leaving town every few months to do shows all over the world.  Even having a baby was unique in my world.  But Sarah was very much a baby of the city.  She wore black as an infant, and was dandled on the knee of our dear neighbor who just happened to be a drag queen.

So you can see what a shock it was when I entered the world of soccer moms and SUV’s.

Being an actress I found it very easy to blend in.  I ditched the black for both Sarah and me, and donned the suburban uniform of khaki’s and sneakers.  I joined a playgroup and a mother’s center.  I went to the playground and the mall.  I drove a Volvo sedan.

Then I got pregnant with twins and everyone joked about the soon-to-be-purchased minivan.  That’s when my instincts for self-preservation kicked in.  What had happened to me?  Who was this pastel-wearing woman?  Where was the uninhibited actress?

I balked, refusing to fall into the predetermined mold.

No minivan for me.

I spent weeks searching for a car that would fit three car seats across the back, and finally discovered that a 1999 Volvo wagon would do just that.  As luck would have it, our local Volvo dealer had a ‘certified pre-owned’ (aka used) one on his lot.  We bought it immediately and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

I would never, I swore to myself, buy a minivan.

“But,” argued my husband, “we’ll need more space on the cross country so that we can carry everything we need.”

I held my ground.

Then we took a six hour drive to Washington DC with all three kids lined up along the back seat like sniping sea gulls battling for supremacy of the dock.

I relented.

Our 2007 Chrysler Town and Country minivan comes complete with automatic doors and that dream of every suburban parent – a DVD system.  My husband has named it the Vannikan Roadwalker, an action I refuse to sanction.

“Don’t name it,” I tell him.  “You’ll get attached to it.”

“But she’s great,” he gushes.  “She has so much room.”

“It’s not a she, it’s an it.  Any way, that’s not even a girl’s name.”

“She’s like a ship.  They’re all she’s.”

“This is not a ship, and it’s getting sold as soon as we get back.”

“But we love her, Mama,” chime in all three children.  “She has a DVD player!”

“It’s not a she, and I’ve already composed the Craig’s List ad.”

Everyone tells me I’ll grow to love it.  They all laugh behind my back at my insistence upon my dislike for it.  No one expects me to follow through on my threat.

And I do see their points.

I can’t tell you how lovely a long drive was with all three children sitting in very separate seats glued to the movie showing on the DVD.  And with only one back seat out, it certainly can hold an enormous amount of stuff.

But the other day I pulled into the parking lot at a Little League game in my own car.  Amidst the sea of minivans and SUVs, mine was the lone station wagon; and I felt a surge of latent individuality.  Yes, I may be stubborn.  Yes, I may be impractical.  And, yes, I may be pulling my hair out the next time my kids are crammed into the back seat as we travel four hours to my sister-in-law’s house.

But I’ll be doing it in my own unique impractical, insanity-inducing way.

Anyone want to buy a minivan?  It’s cheap and available in September.  The only shortcoming is that you’ll have to pry my husband and children out of it.

THE TALE OF THE CAT WITH THE MAGICAL PURR

I am obsessing about a cat.  And the fact that we’re going to be away for seventy-four days, and still haven’t found anyone to stay in our house.

I wouldn’t be so worried about it if it weren’t for Lily, the aforementioned feline.  Oh, we’ve had several offers from friends and family of various possible ways to make sure she’s fed and watered for the ten plus weeks we’ll be away.  But with Lily there are other concerns.

Let me tell you a little story.

Once upon a time (about thirteen or fourteen years ago) a kitten was born.  She was your basic grey tabby domestic housecat.  Nothing special.  Or at least, that’s what everyone thought.  But this particular kitten was indeed special … very special.

She had a magical purr.  If she looked at a man and purred, that man instantly became loving and gentle.  His hands could not help but pet the little kitten or scratch her neck.  His voice would soften so as not to jar in the little kitten’s sensitive ears.  And the kindness he felt towards the little kitten would carry over into the rest of his life, so that he was loving and gentle with all he met.  The little kitten’s magical purr made many people happy and served her well for the first few years of her kittenish life.

But then she met a terrible creature.  An ogre with a hearted so hardened that even her magical purr could not soften it.  Try as she might, she could not make the ogre loving and gentle.  Instead he became angrier and meaner, and he imprisoned the little kitten and beat her for no reason.  The little kitten’s heart was pure and sweet, and she thought she could save the ogre from his own meanness; but the more she purred, the angrier he became and the crueler he was to the little kitten.  Eventually all the magic was drained out of her and she spent her days hiding from the ogre’s painful smacks and kicks.  In time she even forgot that she’d ever had a magical purr.

Still imprisoned in the ogre’s castle, she grew into a cat.  All the anxiety and fear she lived with day in and day out began to affect her health, and she became very sick.  She was so nervous about running into the ogre that she wouldn’t even leave her hiding places to go to her litter box, which angered the ogre even more.  She couldn’t eat because stomach was constantly in a knot.

Finally the ogre decided he didn’t want to have a prisoner any more.  He put on thed special mask he used to move among the humans and packed the little cat – because of her illness she hadn’t grown much bigger than a large kitten – into a box.  He took her to an animal shelter and left her there.

The people at the shelter held out little hope of this frail, sick, frightened cat ever finding a home; but they took her to the veterinarian to try to help her get better.  At the vet’s office she sat in a cage as many people, some of whom even looked like the ogre’s disguise, came and went with their own healthy well-cared for animals.  Day after day she sat there, sick and terrified, hiding under her blanket whenever one of the people came too close.

One day a teenager who was studying at the office learning how to be a veterinarian thought that his mother’s friend might be able to help.  He knew this little cat was sick and scared of people, but something told him to call his mother’s friend.

Now, his mother’s friend was a kind lady with a gentle voice and magic in her hands.  But she was very sad because her dear sweet loving cat had just died, and she knew she wasn’t ready to take in another one.

“No one could replace my Boo Kitty,” she said.  “But I’ll come meet your sick little cat.”

When she walked into the office, she saw the little cat in her cage hiding under and faded blue blanket and her heart went out to the poor creature.  She knelt by the cage and touched her fingers to the bars.

“It’s okay, sweet thing,” she cooed, “I won’t hurt you.”

The little cat observed the lady from the safety of the blanket cocoon.  She was small, too, just like the little cat.  And she had a sweet voice.  And there was something about her hands.

The little cat poked her head out of the cocoon and sniffed.  The lady smelled gentle, but the little cat couldn’t be sure.  Her memory was filled with kicks and yells and smacks, and being chased even into her safest hiding places.  She hesitated.

The lady moved her finger on the cage and whispered, “Look how beautiful you are.”  There was something about those hands.

The little cat knew that the bars of the cage would protect her, so she crept carefully out of her safe blanket and moved closer.

“That’s it, sweetie.  It’s okay.”

The little cat’s peach-colored nose inched closer until it brushed one of the lady’s fingertips.  That was all it took for the lady’s magic hands to melt a tiny bit of the fear that had lodged itself in the little cat’s heart.  And they both knew.

It would be a long road, but together they would work to find the little cat’s magical purr.

And that is exactly what they did.  It took four years of love and care and gentleness, and the little cat’s health – both physical and emotional – is still delicate; but her magical purr fills the lady’s small home, and all who enter are touched by it.

Now the lady with magic hands is worried that the delicate little cat with the magical purr will think the lady and her family have abandoned her just the way she was abandoned before; and if they take her to someone else’s house, she may think that they’ve given her away.  The little cat’s loving heart might break if she thought her family didn’t want her any more.

In other words …

Our cat, Lily, was so badly abused that she developed inflammatory bowel disease and chronic diarrhea.  Then she was yelled at so much for the mess that she became afraid to poop and rather than use the litter box she hid it all over the house, which got her beaten even more and made her even more terrified.  Then she was dumped at the shelter.  Two different families tried to take her in, but brought her right back.  By the time we got her she was afraid of the litter box, afraid of men, afraid we’d be taking her right back to the shelter, and afraid to come out from behind our bathtub.  She was on steroids for nearly a year, had a special diet for two years, and still has occasional issues with sudden movements.

But through it all she had this incredible purr for me.  All I had to do was look at her and this giant rumble would come out of her … no petting, no talking, nothing.  Just look at her and puuuurrrr.

Now she’s a completely different cat.  She climbs into almost anyone’s lap, follows me around the house like a dog, and that purr is still there.  She’s friendly, loving, and trusting.  The last thing I want to do is destroy that trust by sending her someplace else to live and making her think that the people she’s grown to love so much have abandoned her.

So you see why, I really have to find someone loving and gentle to stay in our house and keep Lily happy till we come home to her.

SHE’S BA-A-A-A-ACK!

Let the planning begin.

Step One:
Start working with Gene’s helpful but basic schedule of where we’ll be on what days.

Step Two:
Realize that Gene’s schedule is woefully inadequate for my purposes.

Step Three:
Spend five hours rewriting the schedule as an Excel file with date, day of the week, city left, miles traveled, city arrived at, miles left till we reach New York, Chamber of Commerce contact information, hotel options with pricing and contact information, confirmation numbers, cancellation policies, dining possibilities, activity possibilities, PR possibilities, and whatever else comes to mind to add on in the future.

Mama is on the job!

IN WHICH I HAVE A TERRIBLE DREAM ABOUT BEING TRAPPED IN A MINIVAN WITH MY CHILDREN … OH WAIT, THAT’S NOT A DREAM, IT’S A PLAN

I’m beginning to have serious doubts about my ability to survive this trip.  It has nothing to do with stamina – after all I’m not the one cycling seventy-five to a hundred miles a day.  It has nothing to do with comfort – I’ve finally convinced my entire family that, while camping our way across the country sounds exciting in theory, it is an entirely different thing when you have to live that way for almost three months.

It has to do with the fact that after two or three hours in a minivan every day I just might have to kill all three of my children and end up on death row in some conservative Midwest state where they don’t understand Northeastern mothers’ stress levels.

Actually, I may not have to kill all of them.  Only Sarah.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my daughter.  In fact I am amazed every day that I’ve been allowed to be mother to this brilliant, creative, altruistic, funny, and beautiful child for the past twelve and a half years.

But right now – this particular day – I wonder how someone managed to replace that brilliant, creative, altruistic, funny, and beautiful child with this whiney, temperamental, irritable, diffident and petulant tweenager without my noticing it.

And I wonder if there’s any way we might possibly be able to leave her home while we traipse around the country for the summer.  I mean, if you go away for the weekend, you can leave your cat with plenty of food and water; and know that three days later it’ll be fine when you get home.  It probably won’t even have noticed you were gone.  If we leave Sarah with a computer, a phone, and a freezer full of veggie burgers I’m fairly certain the same thing will happen at the end of the summer.

And her brothers, especially William, will be so much happier.

I’m not sure what it is, whether they’re too different or too much the same, but Sarah and William are like rubbing alcohol and chlorine – mix them together in a confined space and there’s bound to be an explosion.  This would be fine if we could just put them in a room together and let them conflagrate themselves.  James and I, though, will be in a minivan that seems spacious right now when peacefully compared to my station wagon; but that will get infinitely smaller when we’re stuck in there with two screaming dragons dueling to the death.  Invariably, they’ll survive to lick their wounds for another battle while James and I will be the collateral damage in a sibling war waged on four wheels.

And my husband will be happily zenning out on his bicycle.

The reality of this trip is hitting home now and a very practical and not-so-exciting way.