National Lampoon’s Vacation Part 23

We headed to Camden, Maine a couple of weeks ago for a family reunion and a little vacation fun.  Camden is a favorite of mine.  Its picturesque main street advertises lobster stews and clams, Maine shrimp sandwiches and maple fudge.  Colonials showcase overflowing flower boxes along the side streets, while nearly every restaurant overlooks the Penobscot bay.  I love watching the boats bob over the wake and the gulls glide in the wind…

So we set out with anticipation.  I, for one, was really looking forward to fresh lobster.  But my dreams of a lovely vacation were shattered early on in the journey.  The first leg of the trip was downright horrendous.  I’d like to get my hands on the person who decided to name traveling with young children VACATION.

I drove the first leg, speeding through Connecticut and Massachusettes.  After a mere hour on the road, I was getting really ticked off at the “Masshole” drivers, (a legendary rageaholic status reserved specifically for  Massachusettes drivers).   Being sucked into defensive driving mode on open interstate is never a good idea.  I was playing chicken with a bunch of Nascar wanna-bes.  I am not an angry driver, mind you, but my blood was already boiling from the super sonic screeching coming from the sweet little mouth of my one year old.  This kid could sonically evicerate you from 800 meters away. It’s a good thing he’s cute. I’ll leave it at that.

Naturally, the next event to follow was being pulled over by a Mass state trooper.  I felt my southern sass rise like bile in my throat as he approached our vehicle.  Luckily, my husband squeezed my arm in a warning to hold my tongue just in the nick of time.  This man was is no mood for an argument.  I accepted my ticket with as much grace as I could muster, it was my fault after all, wasn’t it?

On the road again, I drove for another fifteen minutes when we decided to make a stop.  If my husband and I didn’t get another cup of coffee and a set of earplugs, there would have been an infanticide.  So we cruised into a Starbuck’s parking lot- just as our engine started to stink like burning fuel, and oh how how lovely the smell was.  With burning nostrils and a cuss word on the tip of my tongue, I dragged the children into the bathroom while my husband checked under the hood.  We decided to head to a gas station and refill the transmission fluid and get on our way.

Thirty feet out of the gas station parking lot, after a refill of fluid, the transmission started slipping, making the car cruise from first to fourth gear and all over the damn place.  Alas, we pulled over, or more aptly, we coasted into a semi-ditch in front of a house in fourth gear.  Needless to say, the landing was less than desirable.   My husband and I were now berating ourselves for being dumb enough to consider a road trip in a car with 250,000 miles on it.  How stupid can you get?  Note to self:  wishful thinking does NOT get you to your destination!

So we made an action plan; my husband would walk to the nearest car rental place, which was close, thankfully, and I would take the kids for a romp in someone’s ditch.  Upon opening the van doors, thousands of polly pocket dolls, pretzel pieces, and copious amounts of rattling singing thingamajigs crashed around my feet.  My daughter had to poop, my infant son was an oozing mess of mashed strawberries and hummus, and it began to thunder- LOUDLY, making everyone cry.

All I could say was, “AWESOME.  I LOVE this vacation!”

Three car rentals (long story), and a dump in the woods later, we were on the road again, crammed into a small sedan that could barely contain us.  My daughter fell asleep on stroller wheel and we rode up front WEARING our life jackets.

But we did arrive, at last, 3 hours later than expected, nearly missing the entire reunion picnic.  We drowned our sorrows in lobster bisque, cooled off in a cold pool, and put those exhausted children to bed.  The laughs with the family and the gorgeous scenery made the trip worthwhile.  And then there was the ride home…