Traveling in Style

I am pretty sure that my ass is posted on Facebook. Some girls I don’t know from somewhere in South Carolina did it, I am sure.


Allow me to explain.

For quite a while, I have had an on and off again case of van envy. It usually comes on when I am traveling with the girls. Traveling brings out the problem solver in me—usually because traveling is really nothing but an endless string of issues and indignities that I have to endure to get to the destination to have Fun Family Memories. I have long wished that I would be That Mom that has a calm look on her face while her kids are happily sitting in their comfy captain’s chairs, riding down the road in happy anticipation for the next wholesome family trip that will surely include nature and crafts in some way. All the space! The safety features and stowaway seating! The built-in TV screens in the ceiling of the van.

Go ahead and judge, granola mommies. Go ahead and judge while you stuff your kids full of gluten-free, organic food and happily play with your darlings with your handmade toys, talking about how you breast fed your children until they were two and made all your own baby food, deodorant and laundry detergent. I used to be like you. Sort of. I at least used to sneer at the poor, out-of-control mothers that had to resort to letting their kids watch television in the car. I was so smug about the fact that I was waaaayyyy more enlightened about the dangers of too much television and that kids needed to stimulate their minds doing active, creative things, even when traveling. I was self-righteous up until the point that I realized I probably needed anti-anxiety medication on any journey longer than a half hour. And since I used to have an hour-long commute to work every day…well, you get the picture.

Now I am not sure if I could ever travel without televisions. I don’t care if my children’s development is stunted while traveling. I just want there to be quiet, blessed quiet, where not one soul asks me for one thing while we are getting where we are going. Not one snack, not one drink, not fixing one twisted seat belt, not one dropped toy—nothing. It is a dream right up there with getting to go on vacation to French Polynesia for a month. My husband asserts that he has the hardest job as he must safely get us to our destination and locate a radio station for us to listen to without interruption because he refuses to use my iTunes. But we all know the truth. He drives because he has witnessed the contortionist act that the passenger must perform in our SUV every time we go anywhere more than five miles down the road. And I am certain owning a minivan will solve all of these issues and more.

Okay, back to why my ass is on Facebook.

So we are driving down the road, and Little Mountain Goat is crying because she has thrown her bottle on the floor of the SUV for probably the hundredth time. And I am searching desperately for it because it is the only thing that will induce a bit of peace while we drive to Florida. Never mind that she is nearly TWO and STILL is very much attached to her bottle. I am starting to wonder if I need to look into some sort of rehab facility for her bottle addiction. We are going to Disney for Thanksgiving because we like to put ourselves in the most ridiculous stressful situations possible during holiday times. Only I put my foot down and said that we were NOT going to the theme parks during one of the most crowded times of the year with a nearly-six-year-old and nearly-two-year-old. So there. I am not as crazy as those people. While I am nearly on my head in the back seat yet still somehow have my lower half of the body in the front seat, I notice not for the first time the disgusting mess that the floor of our Explorer is. There are bits of cereal, French fries, fruit snacks, dried milk and juice and a myriad of unidentifiable grossness down there. I am pretty sure that if were ever in a situation where we had to live in this vehicle, we could live for at least several days on what we find. That is, if we don’t catch some sort of rare bacterial infection in the process.

I am doing a move that could either pass as some advanced yoga pose, and it just so happens that my jeans are, of course, drooping down just enough that you see my butt crack. I barely even notice this is happening because I am constantly stretching and bending and nearly losing my pants anyhow. The other day Little Mountain Goat actually pantsed me. I was wearing comfy pants and doing dishes. Little Mountain Goat prefers that I to hold her while I am doing everything, but I couldn’t at that moment because I was elbow-deep in suds. So Little Mountain Goat attempted to climb up my leg like a tree. She starts climbing, my pants fell, leaving me in the middle of the kitchen with no pants and Little Mountain Goat indignantly crying because her attempt at ascending Mount Mommy failed. Mountain Man walks in at this moment and laughs hysterically. If I weren’t so used to scenes like this, I would have probably either cried or thrown something in sheer rage. But I just pulled up my pants and went on washing the dishes, tuning out the growing shrieks of Little Mountain Goat.

Oh, right. Back to me searching for the bottle in the back seat with my disappearing pants. Suddenly, Mountain Man yells, “Hey!” and begins swerving to the other lane. This move makes me fall over on Mountain Man, and he is laughing and pushing me off of him, saying, “Honey, I think those girls just took a picture of you.” It didn’t even register at first why they would bother taking one of me. I heaved myself up off of the floor of the backseat, uncurling myself from my newly discovered yoga pose, and take a look at the car that is in the other lane now slightly behind us. They girls in it were young, likely in college. The one in the passenger seat is holding up her phone and all three of them are laughing hysterically. And then it hits me: They just took at picture of me. They just took a picture of my ass. And they are now posting it on Facebook.

I’ve got it hand it to my Mountain Man. He really did try to elude those bitches. The situation brought out his inner Nascar driver and had him accelerating and swerving as he tried to obscure the girls' view of my posterior. It was a sweet, protective gesture that likely gave me a hernia and a concussion, but it's the thought that counts. It reminds me of the time I was on my way to the hospital to have Mountain Child. I was prancing to the entrance of the hospital in my I Am Really Cute In My Having a Baby Today Outfit. It was a pair of dark brown cargo pants with a pale pink maternity shirt. My hair was straightened and legs were shaved. My makeup even looked good. I had on an adorable brown and pink polka-dotted headband and leather flip flops. I was ready to look radiant and beautiful for all of the pictures after my easy, uneventful delivery. All these thoughts were floating through my head like frilly little kites when I slipped crossing the wet street going into the hospital. Mountain Man, in his attempt to catch me, tried to break my fall by throwing my pillow in the street. It was a valiant, chivalrous effort. However, I was fuming because my  favorite pillow along with my outift was soggy and dirty and my hair was getting frizzy.  A crowd of concerned people swarmed around me as if I were a beached whale, insisting that I needed a wheelchair with my favorite pillow soggy and dirty. And likewise his attempt to out drive the college chicks was indeed appreciated but still ended in humiliation.

Oh, college girls. I understand why you took a picture of my ass. I get why it is likely on Facebook. It really is funny. It is hilarious, actually. But hear me now, college girls: there will be a day where this will be you. Your ass or some other body part will be digitally archived in some stranger’s phone to be presented the next time she is with her friends, perhaps while having a drink at some trendy bar. She’ll pull out her phone and say, “Oh, my God! You will never guess what we saw today! LOOK!” Everyone will peer around the phone looking faint image documenting your discrace. The group will laugh hysterically. And one of the girls in the group will surely say, “Oh, that just SAD. I don’t EVER want to be lame like that.” Meanwhile, you will for the first time in your life actually yearn for a minivan.