The Griswolds Do DFW - 3G

When my sons were small, family vacations primarily consisted of trips to meet up with other dysfunctional relatives for reunions. Being there was fun. Getting there...not so much.

On those long trips I spent the majority of the car ride twisted like a pretzel in the front seat, either answering the whine of "When will we be there?" ad nauseam or playing referee between my two sons while they committed such atrocities as breathing on one other. After endless hours of listening to cassette tapes of 70's music, we would fill the void by playing such lively games as 'I spy something...' and 'Slug Bug'.

It's safe to say our trips pretty much mirrored those of the Griswold family --- me screaming at my sons to "get along and act like you're having fun!" as they managed to dodge my blindly swatting hand with ninja-like skills of evasion. Oblivious to the drama, the Dickman never missed a beat while drumming Inna Gadda Da Vida on the steering wheel.

I'm sure it was his fond memories of those trips that gave Lucas a moment's hesitation when we offered to wisk two of his perfect children off for a quick trip to DFW. The fact that we were only staying one night weighed heavily in our favor. (Because really...how much could we warp his babies in just two days?) He agreed to let us take his little darlins on two stipulations: 1) that we take his brother Jacob along for a chaperone, and 2) that we drive his family van, equipped with 5-point harness safety seats and a custom DVD player.

Good call, Lucas.

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DAY ONE

Can I just say that nothing makes a five hour car trip with young children easier than hypnotising them by playing Blue's Clues on a loop? Today's vehicular DVD players are the equivalent of our generation's practice of dosing the kids with Benadryl and singing 14 rousing choruses of "99 Bottles of Beer".

(Road Trip Nirvana)

Even the lull of the DVD couldn't completely calm the buzz of excitement in the car headed down Highway 287 for Six Flags. Call me crazy, but no matter how many candles wind up on my birthday cake...Six Flags will always be one of my favorite places.

And here I was, taking two of my favorite short people to one of my favorite places. Perhaps such overt excitement was to blame for my shortsidedness in forgetting a few unfortunate morsels of information: not only were we hitting Six Flags on one of the hottest days in Texas history, but both my body and I had aged at least 15 years since our last trip to Six Flags.

It was shocking to find the only people older than Dickie and I who worked at Six Flags were the park maintenance people. When did that happen?

As for the heat...we found that sweating every last drop of moisture from your body pretty much takes care of having to tinkle in a public park restroom.


Other than making sure we never missed a drop of mist, our other strategery for staying cool was to sit quietly on the the exhausted backs of the painted ponies running in circles under the shaded carousel...

...or to loiter in the air-conditioned gift shops until Mandie or Mattman started licking the candy.

Speaking of licking...it was worth the price of admission to discover that age does not diminish the delightful taste of a Pink Thing! But disheartening to remember that a three-digit temperature combined with amusement park food combined with roller coasters is a surefire recipe for disaster. After all, these rides were specifically designed to extract vomit from kids filled with Pink Things and curly fries.

Or more precisely, adults filled with Pappasito's mexican food.

(Not the vomit-inducing ride.)

(Nope, only smiles, no vomit.)

[By the way, there was not a single group shot taken, because two of us always had our hands full of kid and the other one couldn't find a reliable person that did not look like a camera thief. Very large people squished into tiny spandex garments do not evoke fuzzy feelings of trust.]

We finally sweated through all our dignity and made a beeline for the most invasive water ride we could find. It was powerfully refreshing to get drenched with gallons of stagnant water.

And nothing short of empowering to realize that nobody even notices if you got scared on the ride and peed your pants...


Just 5 hours, 4 sausages-on-a-stick, 3 Pink Things, and 2 glow-in-the dark headbands later, we were forced to leave when our chaperone blew chow on a Tilt-N-Hurl ride in Gotham City.

As we drove back to the hotel, we reviewed our fun-filled day amid the smells of vomit, fried foods and urine. We unanimously agreed: A Good Time Was Had By All.

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DAY TWO

We awoke the next day somewhat recovered and ready for Part Deux of our Great DFW Adventure. Our little gang of five divided into teams of gender as the boys dropped Mandie and I off in front of the obnoxiously pink American Girl Boutique...

(Finding my tiny G-girl in this photo is like Finding Waldo.)

I'm not ashamed to admit it. I got almost as excited as my 5-year old Grand-girl when we stepped out of the real world and into the land of doll utopia. We walked through showroom after showroom looking at displays selling everything a doll could ever need or want. From the skin of her plastic torso to the wardrobe of her real-life girl/mommy - here it was. Estrogen on crack.


Maybe it's because I've lived most of my life in a man's world, but when I got past all the PINK --- I couldn't help but be a little in awe of this oh-so-girly store full of everything a doll lover could imagine --- and then some. For example, here is American Girl's answer to what one should do with a doll while answering the call of nature:


Meanwhile, the boys combined their collective testosterone and marched themselves right on over to...the Galleria shopping mall. Okay, in all fairness, they did manage to hang out with some ferociously wild animals...




Packing so much fun into a two day trip was nothing short of exhausting, for 3 year olds and 50+ year olds, alike. I anticipated hearing nothing on the long ride home but the sound of gentle snoring (hopefully not from the driver). Instead, what I heard was "Can we watch Blue's Clues again?".

As we drove through Quanah, I found myself humming "99 bottles of beer" and scavanging in my purse for a Benadryl.


Blue's Clues, aside, I loved every sweaty moment of our Most Excellent Adventure. Traveling with grandchildren is much more fun than traveling with your own children. Nobody has to act their age and everybody gets to have a great time.

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When we finally pulled into Lucas' driveway, turned off the DVD player and unhooked the harnesses...we all bailed out of that smelly car with hearts and souls stuffed to overflowing with memories.

And that's important.

Cause you never know when you might need one of those memories - or at least a green balloon - to carry you along this roller coaster ride of LIFE.

We don’t stop playing because we grow old;
we grow old because we stop playing.
~ George Bernard Shaw ~

Crossing Over

I walked out of the airport and into Dickie’s arms. I pulled back to look at his face and saw my sadness and fatigue mirrored in his beautiful blue eyes. “How is he?” I asked. “Do you think it’s too late to go see him?”

“Aw, Robin…you’re tired. I’m tired. We can see him in the morning. Unless you want to go now. Do you want to?”

“Yes”, I replied. “I need to go now”.

We walked into the hospice room and I went straight to Richard's bed. He was lying quietly, staring off into space. I leaned over him, gently embracing his shockingly thin shoulders. I put my cheek next to his and whispered in his ear “So, this is what happens when I leave town for a few days?”. He gave me a ghost of a smile and asked if I had a good time. Embarrassed by my tears (I should be at least as strong as he), it took me a minute to come up with a smartass answer.

We spoke of things both trivial and monumental. We spoke of doctors and soup and Last Wishes. His effort to remain strong and stoic was remarkable. The only crack in his tired armor came when he spoke of his loves – Vicky and Michelle. We laughed about his hiccups. I hugged him goodbye and told him I would see him ‘tomorrow’.

Eight hours later we got the call that he was fading quickly.

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There is nothing more sacred than being present during the passing of a loved one. For whatever reasons, I have spent more last moments with loved ones than I care to count. It has happened so often that my brother lovingly calls me the ‘angel of death’.

Letting go of someone you love is never easy. The finality of that last goodbye - our last physical connection with someone who has shared our lives - is heartbreakingly sad. Every single time. There is that human part of us that never fails to confuse dying with the finality of death. There is always that momentary blindness in our cloud of grief that forgets dying is nothing more than a transition into a deeper form of life and a more perfect way of living.

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His eyes were mostly closed, his breathing pattern erratic and slowed. I kissed him on the cheek and told him I loved him. He squeezed my hand and rasped his love in return. I thanked him for being my friend. I told him that today seemed like a good day to go to Heaven. I asked if he would talk to Jesus about sending some rain our way. I’m selfish like that.

Moments later, we gathered around Richard as he rested peacefully in the whirlpool. The lights were dimmed, the bubbling of the water calming and tranquil. It took me a few moments to hear the music playing softly in the background. It was a song that had carried me through some of my hardest days…a song of hope and grace. I gently placed my hand on Richard’s chest, feeling his precious heartbeat as I softly sang along…

Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I'm found
Was blind, but now I see

His pulse beneath my hand grew fainter and I knew I was standing in the presence of sacredness. My tears overflowed as I celebrated Richard’s arrival in heaven.

They say our hearing is the last sense lost. With one foot in a hospice whirlpool and one foot in heaven, these were the words that sang Richard home...

My chains are gone
I've been set free
My God, my Savior has ransomed me
And like a flood His mercy rains
Unending love, Amazing grace

Rich...I know you've already found your Little Piece of Heaven on the other side and are no doubt fishing. Just a reminder - after you pull in a few big ones - don't forget to check on that rain for me, friend.

Richard Wallace
6/28/1951 - 8/22/2011

ABOUT THOSE BLUE-BUNDLED SUPERHEROES...

I am but another middle-aged woman with shrinking ovaries bumbling my way through life, figuring it out as I sashay down the cobblestoned pathway before me. Thankfully, along the way I have discovered that wisdom does indeed come with age. And though I still have much to learn, there are a couple topics of which I have researched extensively and consider myself to be somewhat of an authority. One is chocolate. The other is boys. (By the way, it’s nothing but a coincidence that they both have nuts.)

My love for chocolate – even nutless chocolate - needs no explanation. So let’s talk boys…

[PLEASE NOTE: When I say ‘boys’, I am referring to ALL boys…old and young, big and small, hairy or bald. Because for the most part, they are basically the same with just different heads. Few of them ever really grow up.]

As a female who has spent the majority of her life surrounded by more testosterone than a Texas bull breeder, I am here to tell you:

BOYS ARE DIFFERENT THAN GIRLS.

Gender neutrality be danged - it is the truth. And while the differences between ‘us and them’ are many and mighty, I would like to offer up just a few personal observations. Offered of course, with love and celebration (and no small measure of bafflement) regarding those noble carriers of the Y chromosome.

BOYS ARE NOT AS CLEAN AS GIRLS.

Makes sense if you think about it. Males - as Hunters and Gatherers - were genetically designed to survive life in the wild. Though it worked well for Tarzan, it can be a bit problematic for a Mom whose biggest job in life is to morph a wildass manchild into a socially acceptable human being. The nastiness begins early on, and manifests itself in their stinky bedrooms. A small boy’s bedroom smells a lot like wet puppy dogs and rotting goldfish. As they grow older, the smell ripens into something resembling moldy bean burritos and petrified cheese balls, with a heavy dose of smartass thrown in. Perhaps their nastiest habit of all is the vast amount of time they spend scratching themselves and adjusting their crotches. (Which is important to keep in mind whenever they ask to share your potato chips.)

If you leave little boys with big, supposedly responsible boys...when you return home you will find all of them laying around in their underwear, scratching themselves while watching Season 2 of Swamp People and sharing a bag of potato chips. And regardless of their laundry skills, they’ve likely been wearing those same underwear for days. Many days. Turns out, boys do not consider their underwear to be dirty until they have been worn frontwards, backwards, right side out, inside out and upside down.

I know it’s discouraging, but there is hope. If you start when they are very young, they are somewhat trainable. For example, they can be taught to lower toilet seats, refrain from eating boogers, and to never ever fart in an unairconditioned car. Ultimately, it’s an exercise in futility to even hope to exact lasting change on the male of the species. Unless of course, he is wearing a diaper.

BOYS ARE LESS CONCERNED ABOUT APPEARANCES THAN GIRLS.

With the exception of weird male outliers like David Hasselhoff…most boys hate to dress up, care little about fashion trends and believe that wearing plaid instead of a gray t-shirt is a fashion statement. One of my brothers, who shall remain nameless (but whose name rhymes with ‘belly’) has owned only one dress jacket his entire adult life. He lovingly refers to it as his Funeral Jacket. The pockets bulge with memorial cards from every single funeral he has attended over the past 15 years.

Then, there are shoes. Boys only need three pairs of shoes: athletic, dress and casual. Actually, two pair will do, as athletic and casual often serve the same purpose. In their favor, guys never lose sleep wondering what shoes might go best with their new salmon-colored shirt. A moot point, because most guys are a bit color blind. Or even if they see colors perfectly well, they will never be able to pick 'Salmon' out of a box of Crayolas. Ecru either, for that matter.

Also in their favor, boys are much more secure about their bodies than we are. And much more sane. They would never subject themselves to a Brazilian wax or walk about in 4-inch heels or shoot themselves up with Botox.

BOYS WANT TO BE OUR HEROES.

In their heart of hearts, all boys wish they could fly like Superman. They love Superheroes and spend their entire lives working on their unique secret power. A guy never feels more manly than when a helpless female brings them a jar to open. Somehow, in their minds, opening our jars is equivalent to us pushing out 8 pounds of baby for them.

They want to be needed. They need to protect, and are always on guard for things that go bump in the night...or even crickets that go chirping in the night. There's not a cricket on the planet that doesn’t quake at the name of Dickman – The Mighty Cricket Hunter. The Dickman once engaged a cricket in a 45 minute hand-to-hand combat. Seriously...for 45 minutes, in the middle of a moonless night, using his son's radar gun for a flashlight, my nekkid husband fought a duel with a defenseless cricket hiding in the bottom of my closet full of shoes. That’s an image that will forever be engraved upon my mind.

BOYS LIVE IN FEAR OF KRYPTONITE.

Grown-up boys will never ask for directions. Admitting they could be in any way directionally challenged is a sign of weakness punishable by possible revocation of the Man Card. Moreover, any car trip involving a male driver – excluding funeral processions - will immediately turn into a potential NASCAR audition. The clock starts ticking after leaving city limits with nothing less than national speed records at stake. I have experienced being the only female traveling in a car full of boys who were in such a race against the clock that they limited my bathroom breaks to towns that began with the letter ‘P’. Of course I was agreeable to the plan. I only peed in Plubbock, Post and Psnyder on the way to Pabilene.

BOYS LOVE TO FIX STUFF.

Although they act all bothered, they really like it when we break stuff around the house because it gives them a chance to show off their ‘fix-it’ skills. Preferably using only duct tape and/or WD-40.

BOYS ARE GOOD WITH REMOTES, BUT NOT SO GOOD WITH WORDS.

I read somewhere that women use around 20,000 words each day, compared to men’s use of only 7,000 words per day. Their word shortage makes it even more important to be succinct when they verbalize their innermost thoughts. Thoughts such as: What’s for dinner? Where’s my glasses?

There are three occasions in which the male species is rendered virtually deaf:

1) when watching anything involving a ball on TV;

2) the first 20 minutes after coming home from work; and

3) when they hear the dreaded words: We.Need.To.Talk.

They are marginally capable of communicating while playing video games, but it will be your fault if they lose. And just so you know, they really don’t want us playing video games with them. In actuality, they are playing the video game to escape from us.

It goes without saying that they must maintain control of the remote at all times. Which is fine. It’s really such a small concession for us to make, when they have control of so little.

Face it girls, with the combination of fewer words and almost no intuition...they will never be able to read our minds. Furthermore, any correlation between what you meant and what he understood? Purely coincidental.

BIG BOYS DO CRY.

In reality, boys are by and large much more sensitive than they will ever admit. Their feelings can be hurt. Their hair-covered muscled exteriors protect a mushy inner core of vulnerability. Boys of any size can be brought to their knees with nothing more than a simple, heart-felt compliment. Even superheroes need compliments.

BOYS…they are loud. They are messy. They are strange. They love weird stuff like dinosaurs, beef jerky, barbeque tools, fart jokes, flashlights, graphic equalizers, peeing in the snow, and crushing soda cans on their foreheads. They test the limits. They will melt your heart one minute and will shatter it in the next. But without a doubt they are God’s most wondrous creations.

My life has been blessed beyond expression to be surrounded by an abundance of handsome princes. Although I’ve learned to fake an interest in bug guts and a fascination with car parts, I’ve never had to fake my adoration for those funny, charming male creatures. I love them, each and every one...from the old balding ones who’ve still got a twinkle in their eye and a spring in their step...to the handsome hunky ones...the little guys with pockets full of treasures...all the way down to the tiny, sweet-smelling new ones bundled in a blanket of blue…

Welcome to the family, baby Max.

Looks like your brother Mason has discovered that it’s much more fun to be a big brother than a superhero ♥

"A boy is the only thing that God can use to make a man."