It's not a vacation. Heck, most of the time, it's not even much fun. No, it's a simple trip to a theme park -- something we do
each and every year, based on the ridiculous premise that theme parks are fun for the whole family. Boiled down to the basics, we ultimately plan these little jaunts for the benefit of our children, who -- quite frankly
-- hate them. But, like it or not, we go -- all of us, operating upon the theory that someone has to keep Anhauser-Busch off the breadlines and it might as well be us buying those $24 French fries as some poor
Japanese tourist.
This year we decided to keep the travel irritation to a minimum, which means we divided the children between two cars. This was made possible because another family went with us on our annual
roller coaster pilgrimage. My son rode with them and my daughter and her friend (I'll call her Jane) rode with us. The drive to the theme park was without notable incident. I'm used to having to rip my kids apart as
they attempt to assassinate one another.
Our hotel had an indoor pool and the kids enjoyed swimming. Afterwards we ate pizza and ordered the kids into bed early so we could be get a fresh start in the morning. I
was looking forward to a good night's sleep.
I had reserved what they called a "suite" -- which meant there were two rather small rooms instead of one: a bedroom with two queen-sized beds and a living room with
a tiny pull-out sofa bed. Reasoning that my husband would be driving back the next night and knowing that both of my children kick like kangaroos when they sleep, I volunteered to sleep with my son in one bed and put
the girls in the other so my spouse could stay up and watch a basketball game, then sleep by himself on the little sofa bed. Besides, that way I wouldn't have to listen to his snoring.
I climbed into bed after
settling the kids down, yawned and started to drift off. I was almost in sleepy-bye land when I heard what sounded like a chain saw starting up from the other bed. I jumped up to find Jane, the friend, snoring like a
caveman. I gently shook her awake and told her to change positions. She did and lapsed back into snoreless sleep. I moved my son back over to his side and crawled into the bed.
As I was drifting off, I heard my
daughter suddenly say, "But my room is clean!"
"Liz, who are you talking to?" I whispered. There was no answer. She was talking in her sleep. I closed my eyes once more. Then I heard snoring again, only this
time it was my son sounding like a drunken water buffalo. I gently prodded him until he turned over and stopped that awful noise. Once again I shut my eyes.
Wham! He kicked me, then pulled all the covers over to
his side of the bed. I pulled the covers back my way (none too gently, I might add) and tried to go back to sleep. Then Jane started snoring again. I wearily climbed out of bed and rolled her over. Just as I crawled
back in, Liz resumed her conversation with the phantom. I knew it wouldn't last long, though, so I ignored her. As I finally got comfortable again, the bed jiggled. I opened my eyes to find my son had climbed out and
was standing next to me.
"I'm going to the bathroom," he announced. Fifteen minutes later, he settled back in. I shut my eyes just in time to hear Jane start a new round of snoring, climbed out of the bed,
rolled her over again and got back into my bed. My son was sitting up in bed, watching me.
"I can't sleep," he said.
"Shut your eyes and try," I snapped and rolled over. Five minutes later, he reached
out and poked my back.
"It's no good, Mom. I can't sleep. Can I get up and watch TV?"
"No," I said through clenched teeth "Go to sleep."
"But you keep getting out of bed and it's waking me up,"
he said. I growled at him and, not being stupid, he realized he'd pushed me a little too far. He crawled back under the covers and within five minutes he was snoring like a jet getting ready for take off. Once again I
rolled him over -- just in time to hear Jane launch into a new round of snoring.
The whole night was like that -- my daughter talking up a storm, the others snoring like the chorus from Hell. Finally, our
wake-up call came. I dragged myself out of bed, took a shower, dressed and spent a wearying day at the theme park. My husband, who can sleep through a hurricane, announced he'd slept like a log. I told him how glad I
was for him and when I relieved him on the drive home, he and the kids all fell asleep and snored en masse, which was good from the point of view that it certainly kept me awake.
But next time I'm sleeping in earmuffs.
