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.