Here we are in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I like Tennessee, but this time it hasn’t been so good to me. Before I begin all that, I’ll tell you why we’re only in Tennessee and not basking in the Florida sunshine. We left late this week because I had this strong feeling that something would move with our fingerprinting appointment for our I171H (the government’s permission slip to us telling us we can adopt internationally). I’m glad we stayed, because it looks like we won’t need to be fingerprinted at all. Our fingerprints from Bubbly’s adoption are still valid. Probably. Yay! I think. Anywho…
Bubbly in the car…BOO! Not so hot. Neither was I when she peed her car seat RIGHT after we took her into a McDonald’s (they have the cleanest bathrooms, usually) to pee. Then, she sat in her own pee until one of the older boys told me she smelled. I said “what does she smell like?”. The reply was “I don’t know, but it’s not good”. She didn’t lie about it, she fessed right up. “Bubbly did you pee your pants”. The reply “Yes, yes I did”. Hmmmm… Luckily, we know our Bubbly. We let her pee herself so as not to put her in Pull-ups again (which she just uses as her own personal toilet, never even bothering to attempt to use a real one). We make her sit on a removable pad in her booster seat. Pull the pad and I’ll stick it in the washer when we get to the condo. I was not so cool about the fact that there was no clean(er) McDonald’s bathroom to take her to. Only a gas station bathroom. Have you tried changing a peed out three-year-old in a BP bathroom? The only thing worse is changing a peed out three-year-old on a plane, been there and done that as well. But, oh the real horror came when Bubbly realized that, once you’ve peed your pink pants with the rhinestone butterfly, now you’ll have to wear these plain old ugly jeans. And, they no longer “match” your cute little pink track jacket with the rhinestone butterfly. Now she no longer felt like “Hannah Montana”. A natural consequence to her actions. And so begins the second longest 56 miles of my life. Why you ask? Because she screamed about those pink pants for 56 LONG miles. Bubbly, Bubbly, Bubbly. When will you learn? But, you might ask, if that was the SECOND longest 56 miles of your life, then what, pray tell, were the first? Let me enlighten you…
GigantoBaby began to complain of an ear ache right around lunch time (yes, Bubbly peed her seat within the first two hours of hitting the open road) . By 3pm he was moaning/wailing in pain. Commence the LONGEST 56 miles of my life. He cried all the way to the Nashville ER, where the wait was so long that I called the pediatrician on call at the hospital I work for and begged her to write a script for some Amoxicillin. Thankfully, she did. We blew out of the ER and arrived here.
When we checked in at our lovely local large chain hotel (MARRIOTT, you total losers), they informed us that they don’t actually have any connecting rooms left. They don’t care that I called when I made the reservation to ask SPECIFICALLY for connecting rooms, and was assured it would be “no problem”. “Hmmm, sorry” the front desk clerk says with a shrug. I’ll show you where you can stick your shrug! I didn’t though, I was SO polite and nice. So, in return, here I sit with two of the saddest three-year olds the world has ever known (the pool was closed by the time we got here) and FPD is in the next room with the older boys and the Diva. No discount either, we paid full price for these non-adjoining rooms. I can hear the Diva through the wall, she doesn’t sound like she’s going to sleep anytime soon. Poor FPD.
And, if all that isn’t bad enough, the refrigerator we use (that plugs into the car) for snacks and lunches on the road, stopped functioning at some point today. So, when we opened it up the smell of rotten hard boiled eggs and rancid lunch meat had us nearly calling the local Haz Mat team. There is a HUGE ball of cheese in the garbage write now. It was one of those economy size blocks that you buy at Costco to feed your small army for a day or two (well, in our house anyway). Now it is one giant, sweaty orange mess in the bottom of the hotel room trash can. Hope Marriott likes finding that, take that you people who don’t care about my adjoining rooms!
This vacation HAS to get better, right? As long as the car doesn’t break down, we’ll deal with whatever comes our way. Please God, don’t take the Expedition!
turkey and cheese sandwich anyone?