Little m Long a

“Hey Dad…”

“Yes, Zoë.”

“Remember that time?  On vacation?”

“Uhm, yeah.”

“When we were at the battle field?”

“Yeah.”

“And there was that hill with the big guns?  The cannons?”

“Yes, Zoë”

“And Zane and I were running up and down the hill?”

“Yes, I do remember that.”

“That was fun.”

We had a blast on our recent road trip.  After much thought, I think I’ve come up with a name for it (because doesn’t every road trip need a title?).  There were some good ones in the mix: The Spring Break Trek, The Great Southern Heritage Odyssey, or the just missed the cut Let’s Poop in a Coon Dog Cemetery Take One.  All excellent choices as you can see.

However, I think I’m gonna go with The Spring Break Southern Heritage Tour 2009.  I’ll be interspersing tales of our journey here as well as over at UpTake.com so if you haven’t done so already, make sure you subscribe to their feed.  Here’s the link to sign up.

As an added incentive, there’s money in it.  Well, not for you.  But it is worth something.

It has been a whirlwind of a Spring Break.  Ten days, five kids, the Dodge Caravan and my compass pointed south.  On a dare, I packed up the kids and took them to Louisiana.

OK, so that’s not entirely true.  She didn’t dare me, rather just stated, “You should take the kids to Louisiana during their spring break.”  It took me all of ten seconds to start making the travel plans.

Rather than drive it straight, as I am prone to do, I pulled a page from my dear mother’s travel guide and took the scenic route.  We hit six states in those ten days and there were stops in each of them.  More about that later.  (I’m still trying to upload the nearly 1000 pictures we took.  I may still be a while.)

One thing the south has that we in Ohio do not (at least not in my yard) is Fire Ants.  I am intimately aware of why they are called Fire Ants, some people call them Red Ants, and made sure to warn my kids of their ferocity.  For the most part, I think I did a pretty good job.

For the most part.

I made the mistake of showing Zane how quickly the ants become frenzied when their bed is disturbed by simply putting a stick into one of the beds.  He thought that was the coolest thing in the world and continued to disturb the ants each time he found a new anthill.  To his credit, he got pretty good at it.

At my brother’s house in Louisiana, I left the kids outside to play while I went in to shower and get some laundry done.  I specifically made a point to tell the kids to leave the ants alone before I left.  It was only a matter of minutes before Zane came running up the stairs, grimmacing and holding his finger.

“What’s the matter, Buddy?”

“I got bit by a Fire Ant.”

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”  (I replied in my most caring and concerned fatherly way.)

“Yeah.”

Then I chuckled, patted him on the head and sent him on his way.  As he started back down the stairs I called to him, “Zane.  How many Fire Ant hills did you think you could destroy without getting bit?”

“All of them,” came his reply.

“And what do you think now?”

“…..not all of them.”

I think my work here is done.

Can someone tell me again why we are having spring break?  And who decided that this was going to be a good idea–especially after loading the caches with chocolate, gummy bears, cream filled eggs and all manner of high fructose corn syrup derivatives.  Essentially, we give our children a speed ball and an empty week praying the weather will hold so that the high will be burned up out of doors.  Yesterday, the first day of our spring break, began innocuous enough.  We slept in.  Relatively.  I could have used another hour or four but then again, who couldn’t?  I made my world famous, from-scratch pancakes and sausage breakfast.  Children were laughing and singing and doing all manner of things that little people do when they are happy in the morning having been served the best breakfast in the world.  They politely asked to be excused from the table and scampered away.  Funny.  They never politely ask to help clear the table and clean the kitchen.  Ingrates!  I digress.

My wife was busying herself for work and I set to the task of cleaning the kitchen.  Not too much time had passed when I hear Zoë asking Zella, “Have you been playing in Mommy’s powder?”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard the question.  Fact, I’ve posed the question myself, however not in the innocently inquisitive manner of Zoë.  “OH.  MY.  GOD!!!!  WHAT IN THE WORLD HAVE YOU DONE?!  WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE THINKING?!!!  AAAAAAARRRRGGG!!!!!!”     Note the subtle differences in inflection.  Zoë has yet to develop the angst.  I think that’s because she doesn’t have to clean it up.  The powder in the air was billowing from the bedroom door not unlike smoke from a house fire seeking a portal from which to continue it’s ascent upward.  Through the haze stepped my little angel, Zella, completely white, dust plumes falling around her feet with every step.  I was mute with anger.  I ushered my little powderball to her bedroom, washed her and changed her.  I then had the pleasure of cleaning the bedroom she had just covered with powder.  It was not yet 10:30am.