If you had known back in the fall that your daughter’s participation in Honor Choir would necessitate a flight to Long Beach, CA to perform in a concert over spring break, you might have objected. (We’ll set aside for now the current controversy over whether you were in fact told but did not listen). But you *definitely* would have objected if you had known that it required a flight over spring break, AND that your wife had to work over spring break, AND that your mom/nanny would suffer injuries in a car wreck that would prevent her from keeping your other kids, AND that you would therefore find yourself taking all four of your kids to Long Beach for five days as a solo parent. Because while you consider yourself to be an involved father, you’re not batshit crazy.
But your daughter has worked hard. And your other kids have to do *something* for spring break. And besides, the days of diapers and toddlers are long behind you, so what are you wonking about, ya big sissy? And when compared to what your family has been through over the past couple of months, this will be a walk in the park. Well, a walk in the park punctuated by shouting and hand-to-hand combat, but still.
And maybe it will get you writing again. Because since the accident, you’ve kinda lost your voice. Sure, there’s that massive thing you started writing in the wake of the tragedy (Giant blog post? Novel? Agonized journal entry?). But it is dark – an adjective that can be applied to very little of your writing to date. And the subject feels somehow too important to just peck out on your phone with minimal editing, the way you half-assedly write everything else. And so you’ve been stalled out. But if not that topic, what? Do funny things still happen? Surely yes, you just don’t see them the way Old Mike did. You’ve somehow lost your funny. “Old Mike was never all that funny,” says some dick inside your head.
So you decide that the trip is still on. Yes, you’re actually going to do this to yourself, with clear foreknowledge of the absolute chaos and vexation it will entail.
The night before your trip, your wife packs the bags for all the kids. Because even though you are a card-carrying feminist, you do still have a penis.
Then the children go to bed, giddy at the adventure that awaits them in the morning. Your wife goes to bed with a sense of melancholy that she can’t come with you. You go to bed with the “what the Hell have I done?” regrets known best by time-share purchasers and parents who have named their son Kyle.
Then it’s morning, and it’s go time. And because of the rain, you leave for the airport an extra hour earlier than you normally would. But it’s useless, because there’s highway construction and maybe a wreck, and you find yourself literally parked on the elevated entrance ramp for thirty minutes. And during that time, you find that your CEO has scheduled an urgent conference call with you. And if it were anyone else, you’d blow them off. But CEO. And “urgent”. Damnit.
So you lecture your children about how they must be angels during this call. No, not dark angels, smart ass. The kind of angels who don’t act like dicks to each other while dad talks to his boss. And you dial in, and begin to give legal counsel. And while you do, time is ticking and you’re not moving. Traffic is snarled as far as the eye can see. Forty minutes and still not moving. Fifty minutes and STILL not moving!
F this.
While still talking on your call, you pull out of traffic, jump a curb, slide through muddy grass, and then drive the wrong way down an entrance ramp. And your oldest daughter – the rule follower – is about to lose her shit. And your youngest kids are like “Dad, what is happening?!” And your oldest son answers: “Awesome stuff – awesome stuff is happening.”
You mute your phone and explain you’ve got this. You unmute your phone and explain the pros and cons of arbitration. You mute your phone and tell your daughter to chill. You unmute your phone and agree that negotiation makes sense. And as you talk legal mumbo jumbo, you zig and you zag down side streets and non-streets, you backtrack and cut over, you weave and merge and nose your way in. And then you’re past the traffic, and you’re back on a highway going the right direction. And you finish your call and make it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. And you’re kids think you’re a wizard.
And you are.
Then at the airport, you encounter wandering monsters (incompetent security line personnel). And you fail your saving throw against their life-drain attack – which is similar to a vampire’s, but it takes longer and is far less sexy. After running the TSA gauntlet though, you manage to level up with your Smoothie-King-before-boarding gambit, and you settle into your seat like a boss.
Then you’re in the air. And you’re armed with books of all sorts, and iPads, and 3DS, and all manner of colors and markers and whatnot. Because you packed the carryons, and fun is your super power. Well, that and ruining chili with too much hot sauce.
But soon the violent turbulence makes your son think he’s gonna vomit. What is it with your sons and vomiting?? So you get out the little bag – the pathetic, tiny little bag that stands no chance of catching even half the vomit – and you hold it in front of his face while he starts sweating and moaning. You’re working out your contingency plan in case he sprays himself: you can give him the T-shirt you’re wearing under your dress shirt; then maybe take his pants to rinse in the bathroom while Riley stays with him in case there’s a round 2.
Now your youngest daughter is scared because the effeminate flight attendant barked over the intercom that they were suspending beverage service “for our safety!” and then repeated variations of the phrase “for our safety” several more times. And you assure her that everything is fine, even as the plane bucks and dips.
And you wonder if your phone will survive a crash, and if the Apple encryption thing will prevent your wife (who can never remember pass codes) from seeing that you were typing this dumb post on the plane before you died.
Whoa, where did that come from? Again with the darkness?
Then the turbulence passes. And your son breathes normally. And your children slowly return to their books and their iPads, and they are once again content. And though all is quiet, the barf bag is in your lap, just in case.
And you don’t know what comes next, or what challenges you’ll face, but you’re glad of that fact. And you’re glad of this adventure.
And look at that: you’re writing again.