Friday, August 12, 2011

"Vacationing" with small children and medium sized dogs.

Summertime is vacation time, right?
I have foggy memories of taking vacations... sleeping in... eating out... relaxing..... sounds wonderful, right?

Brock got a job working on a rustic little cabin in the mountains. YAY! It happened to be in the same neighborhood as our friend's adorable cabin. Are cabins on the side of a mountain considered a neighborhood or a camp or a cluster? Our friends graciously gave us a key to their cabin a few years ago, so that we could use it whenever we desired. In three years we went once. Once. It is merely one hour away from our house. We vowed to utilize their kind offer this summer and the job was the perfect opportunity to go and stay a while.

I drew you a picture so you can see the cuteness.

This is as good as it gets when I cartoon from memory.
  We decided to pack up six beating hearts (Smelly Cat didn't make the cut) and move up there for a week.

Did you all know that we have a 15 month old baby? His name is Thing 2. He recently discovered his Volume 11 shrieking voice and he loathes his Pack-n-Play.

I made it two nights. In that time I got five? hours of very broken sleep. Then I came home and had a meltdown. I'm fine now. *LICKS GLASS*

Here is the Campbell's Soup version of our "vacation" in the quaint cabin in the mountains.

Day 1:

I packed for six straight hours, only stopping for an occasional water break. I arrived late afternoon with the children and my 87 year old Grandmother who was visiting. She watched the children (i.e. we locked them in the cabin) while I unloaded 468 items out of the vehicle. After I spent an hour unpacking and settling in, Grandma and I celebrated our success with a cocktail and made dinner. Brock arrived at dark with Red Dog and Black Dog. Being in a new environment, they were naturally excited (read: cRaZy). After an hour of fetch with Red Dog and a chipmunk scavenger hunt with Black Dog, we all settled in for a good nights sleep.


Everyone was exhausted and tucked into their beds by 9 pm. Grandma and Thing 1 were in the twin beds in the front room. Brock and I were in the double bed with Thing 2's Pack-n-Play at the foot of our bed. The dog beds were on the floor. The relocation of the family and the "equipment" that we need to function on a daily basis had taken its toll on everyone. We were tired. Obviously, Brock started snoring immediately. I laid awake in horror and awe while I listened to the magical hog-like snorting sounds coming out of my handsome husband's mouth. For two hours the chain saw sputtering went on and on and on, and then Thing 2 woke up and shrieked like someone was poking him with tiny hot needles.

We quieted him with a bottle and everyone attempted to get to sleep.

A few hours go by, and Thing 2 starts wailing again, and screaming, and hollering.

Shuffling around in the dark, my husband found him more milk as I frantically searched for his plug. Together we finally pacified him.

Everyone got back into prone position, as just as our eyelids were fluttering blissfully together, we heard:

Crunch crunch crunch crunch  CRUNCH crunch CrUnCh CRUNCH crunch crunch crunch

Red Dog had decided that sometime around 3 a.m. is the best time to eat her dinner.

Brock removed her bowl and I think we may have slept a bit until I heard a horrible ruckus coming from the floor on my side of the bed. It sounded like a bear was trying to claw his way into the cabin. I looked down and saw Black Dog, who had brilliantly wedged herself under the bed and was frantically clawing her way out.

She succeeded in her escape from the sneaky bed trap, but alarmingly in the process, she woke Thing 2.

Day 2:
Brock and I, in a last ditch effort to let my Grandma and Thing 1 get some sleep, did the unthinkable. We pulled the baby into our bed. We proceeded to lay there for an hour as he gleefully poked our eyeballs, pulled our hair, kicked us and spit on us. I decided that my hour and 26 minutes of sleep was all God was allowing me so I hopped out of bed, grabbed the dog leashes and took the mutts on a hike.

It was a beautiful, crisp mountain morning. When I got far enough from civilization, I unclasped their leashes and let them run so that they would be too tired to annoy us back at the cabin. In true Red Dog fashion, Red Dog circled me 587 times, always staying close and keeping watch over me. In true Black Dog fashion, Black Dog ran out of sight three times, and after I called her name 47 times, she finally came back twice with leg bones from a carcass and the last time covered from head to tail in shit. I believe it was cow shit, but I'm not entirely certain.

I then hiked back to my truck, where I had to manually load black dog into the bed, because everyone knows that princesses don't jump. I put Red Dog in with her, who immediately bailed out over the side, because everyone knows that Red Dogs ride in the front (preferably on a lap). I then drove my special needs troupe back to the cabin, where my children awaited.

*theme music from Jaws*

Then we tried to put Thing 2 down for his morning nap.

Did you know that he can wail for an entire hour before he wears himself out enough to sleep? I'm frightened, yet impressed by his sheer will.

We ate and I cleaned up and then it was time to feed everyone again and I cleaned up. Then we locked the pooches safely in the little cabin and we took the children to town for a pony ride at my family's stable.

We  returned to a bloody massacre. Apparently a feeble minded chipmunk decided to enter the cabin, where his death by bored dogs awaited him. You know how dogs like to shake things? Yeah. They did that.

Don't worry Sheryl, I cleaned it.

Scrub scrub scrub. Call me Cinder-fucking-rella.

Then I fixed dinner and we ate and I cleaned up some more. Then we put the kidlets to BED.

Then I watched in horror as Brock tried to peer pressure my 87 year old Grandma into getting hammered (WTF BROCK?), and when she politely declined, he cheerfully set out with the clear intention of getting schnockered himself. I wished I could have joined the party, but all I could picture was a drunk man snoring next to me all night long as I attempted to sleep. The rage was building....
Then we "learned" to play Mexican Train. I put learned in quotations because anyone who knows drunk people, knows they don't remember any games they "learn" when drunk. I know how to play Mexican Train. If you ask Brock, he would tell you that he has never even heard of the game.

Then we went to bed. Amazingly, Brock did not snore (maybe because I threatened to cut him if he did), but I laid awake anyway, knife under my pillow my nerves raw and frazzled from the previous two "vacation" days and hateful in anticipation of the snoring. I slept maybe two broken hours that entire night.

Day 3:

Brains. BRAINS!

We ate and I cleaned up and then it was time to feed everyone again and I cleaned up.

Then we tried to put Thing 2 down for his morning nap.

Did you know that he can wail for an entire hour before he wears himself out enough to sleep? I'm frightened, yet impressed by his sheer will.

Fuck it. I gave up and went home, where my parents took my poor, exhausted Grandma back to Iowa and I had a physical manifestation of the ever present magic that is my life.
Hello lover Laundry....

Are you considering a vacation with small children and medium sized dogs? Don't do it. Just don't.


  1. what a riot! the dog-rolled-in-shit, the dead-blood-spewing-varmint - totally my house too. but you forgot to add in 4 out of 5 dogs smelling like the skunk they just killed or you'd be dead on! of course, i don't have Thing 2 wailing at me either... :)

  2. This has to be the best post I've read all day today!!! I laughed out loud, literally. You poor thing!!! I love all visual effects too!

  3. Ah, a good relaxing time, then!

  4. Love the art! Sounds just like everyone of our camping trips, with the exception of the wailing of Thing 2. The memories, sigh.

  5. Should that be our new life motto? "Wash me bitch." It speaks volumes about the glamour and leisure of our lives.

  6. That was not vacation. You got PUNK'D. Obviously.

  7. You must have been a HORRIBLE kid because karma has your number. Big time. PS: Loved the "tiny heart" in the chipmunk massacre illustration.

  8. I was a great kid, I swear. But I was a horrible teen age girl to the boys my age. Total dream crusher over here. I worry about that with my guys.... I will never let them date girls like me.

  9. The only thing better than your illustrations are your descriptions of the shenanigans. Thanks also for your kind words! *wink

  10. I laughed so hard at the dog getting stuck. Ha Ha. My dog gets stuck too! Drive me insane.