The Griswolds Invade San Diego

Back in October, Landy and I decided to take John on a special trip to San Diego to coincide with a business trip. I was very nervous about leaving Ben so soon after his seizures, but I took comfort knowing that he was left in good hands. The three of us went out for a few days while Ben stayed home with his grandparents, maintaining his therapy schedule and happily being the center of attention! We arrived late at night, checked into the Westin in the Gaslamp District, and plotted our daily activities. We decided to try one major attraction each day, and that worked perfectly. I love San Diego so much that I could live there. I especially like the way that someone comes and makes the beds and brings fresh towels. Oh, wait. Well, never mind. But I still love it!

Day 1: San Diego Zoo

This was the best day!

In case you were wondering, this is what an $11 diet Coke looks like.

He really wanted to eat us for lunch, but he was too lazy to move the entire time we were there.

It may be difficult to see, but that is a panda sleeping in a tree as if she had taken four bear-sized Ambien. Oh, how I envy that panda.

Beginning our first ride on the Skyfari. After refusing to ride most of the morning, John suddenly announced that he wanted to after all, so we rode it three times. There is no making this kid do anything he doesn't want to try. You have to lie in wait, and he'll come to you. Control issues - I have no idea where he got that.

The littlest elephant taking a bath.

Right after I took this picture of this young giraffe chewing on a railing, his mother galloped over to him, scolded him about germs and H1N1, and doused him with hand sanitizer.

Booooo, Bengals! That's for you, Aunt Laurie and Uncle Matt!

Day 2: Legoland and La Jolla

No, no, THIS was the best day!

For six year old boys, the happiest place on earth might not be Disneyworld.

John practicing for Halloween as Obi-Wan. Yes, I made him wash his hands every time he touched that thing (four times, not that I was counting).

John found this lego dog and wanted me to take a picture so we could show Ben.

And there it was. That tug at my heart which I try to ignore much of the time so as not to allow it to overwhelm me. It's a feeling that is constantly present, of course, but I usually like to stuff it in a bottle, cork it up, place it in a box, wrap the box, and hide it in my inner closet. This time, I had to inhale sharply and bite my lip before I could smile and snap a picture. I don't think that John needs to know the depth of the pain I feel when we have fun family outings such as this while leaving Ben behind. Many things touched me so very deeply about the story behind this seemingly innocuous picture. Very simply, John noticing something that his brother would like and wanting to show him is enough to be heartbreakingly precious in my world.

Then there was the fact that Ben was 2,000 miles away; our family was not complete. Yes, I know that even if Ben were like other 30 month old boys, he still would not necessarily be at the ideal age to visit this place, but there is no rational thinking in these situations. There is only wondering and hoping and wishing and abandoning the pledge to take each day as it comes. That gives way to wondering if Ben will ever be able to join us, racing around the park, begging to ride each ride with his own voice... with actual words. Walking with his legs... without help. All of his whims being shamelessly indulged by his grateful parents, brother, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, who would naturally all be there to celebrate that we could all do this together, that nobody needed to stay behind to take care of Ben...that things could be as they were supposed to be.

Then there was gratitude for the big sunglasses that could disguise silent tears before John knew that his mom was in pain. And ultimately, there was a roller coaster that needed to be ridden, and so I sucked it all back in and raised one hand in the air, held the other arm tightly around John so he wouldn't be scared, savored his face as he had a completely new experience, studied the way the corners of his eyes crinkled and how his muscles contracted as we rode the big hill up, anticipating the big drop to come. There. Back into the land of taking life one day at a time. Remembering that I have to take that approach with John as well. Recalling all the days we had together in his first three years when he was the center of our universe, how we didn't realize that they were really so very carefree; regretting each day that has passed in a blurry haze since. And I don't mean that I regret the days themselves, or Ben, or any of it. I think I probably feel like any parent who has felt guilt over time lost with the firstborn after the arrival of the second, but I feel it to the nth degree. I just regret the blurry haze. Sunrise, Sunset.

John and his friend, Spongebob, who isn't allowed to come over while Ben is awake. I don't need Ben's first words to be, "Oh, barnacles!" or "I anything can't do right since because pickles!" or "Oops, I split my pants!" or anything of that ilk.

John posed with Mom's hero circa 1983, his own hero present day.

Beetle Bounce, what we thought would be the last ride of the day. We rode three times! Those seats are clearly not made for grown people. From our lofty vantage point atop the Bounce, we spied the LegoTechnic roller coaster. After spending the full day adamantly refusing to set foot on or near that ride, he declared that we should go there next. Well, alright.

After departing Carlsbad, where we stopped and bought new jeans for a certain someone who may have wet his little pants on the LegoTechnic! And then he may not have told us about it until after he rode it one more time. Sorry to the next person in line for our seats...

And then we stopped in La Jolla, one of my favorite places. Beautiful, chic, relaxed.

Day 3: Sea World

This was unanimously voted the very best day! Truly.

Fascinated by being able to reach out and touch rays as they glided gracefully by us in a shallow pool, John came back to this attraction three times. "Slimy mushrooms" - a surprisingly apt description from someone who wouldn't touch a slimy mushroom if his life depended on it.

John has a serious love of the skylift, and San Diego did not disappoint. The one at Seaworld glides back and forth over Mission Bay and is lovely. I expertly hid my white knuckles and buried the anxiety caused by the implications of the command to "sit to this side" under my plastered-on smile, because this! was! fun! Really.

See?

I don't care what you call him or how many there are, that's Shamu, and he's as wonderful as I remember him to be. And just as I was settling into the special sort of reverie that happens when witnessing some nostalgia one hasn't seen in over thirty years, my husband leans over and whispers to me, "You know that every time one of those guys rides Shamu up into the air like that, he thinks, 'Please don't kill me. Please don't kill me.'" Oh, that Landy. He's very practical and probably also correct, but he needs more art. In his defense, the situation might have been reversed. There may be a time or two when we've attended a baseball game, Landy waxing poetic about a childhood memory like James Earl Jones in Field of Dreams, while I wonder aloud why every game I attend results in extra innings. Please don't get me wrong. I love baseball, but I think the games are long enough, don't you? I would prefer a Sudden Death Homerun Derby over extra innings. Think about it, Mr. Selig.

This is the Journey to Atlantis. From this angle, it appears to be merely a roller coaster. Um, no. At the beginning, there is a 60 foot plunge into a lake. John was brave after riding the Legoland roller coasters the previous day, but this one might have him swearing off amusement parks for the rest of his life. This is the only ride that made him say, "I don't want to do that again."

After three consecutive nights spent dining at California Pizza Kitchen, I could take no more. We risked life and lung in order to dine at an actual restaurant in the Gaslamp Quarter. We all walked to La Strada, a place that appeared busy enough to be good, but not too busy to quell our food allergy fears.

Success! John ate all his noodles and most of the chicken with nary a hive nor a rasp, and the good boy from North Carolina by way of Kentucky was rewarded with a delicious milk-free dessert!

The next morning, John and I got up early and caught our flight back to North Carolina. We had a brief layover in Phoenix, just enough time to find something milk-and-peanut-free for John to eat and grab a book at the store. The second leg was obviously a long one, so we first had a pitstop in the restroom. John is getting to the age when he is unsure if he should be in the bathroom with a bunch of women, but I'm not ready to send him in alone, so I took him in with me. We found the handicap accessible stall available, and anyone would agree that is preferable to maneuvering around a single with a six year old and two carry-ons. Little boys go first, of course. Then I stood him in the corner, admonished him to "touch absolutely nothing or you'll get the swine flu," and proceeded to carelessly yank my insulin pump right out of my skin. This is painless but annoying. And then I realized that all my supplies were in my checked baggage, I probably had high blood glucose, and suddenly I had no way to get insulin. Very Griswold-y.

Before I could either panic or buckle down and decide to remedy my predicament, I heard a loud "AHEM" from outside the door. I quickly gathered our things and hustled us out, and we were greeted by a grumpy lady standing behind her wheelchair. I offered an apologetic smile with a nod toward my son rather than the "It says accessible, not reserved" speech a la Larry David that I so wanted to deliver. I had other things on my mind. I walked to the darkest corner I could find, used the light from my pump as a flashlight, and inserted the cannula right back into my skin before it began to close. Yes, I know, ewww. Modesty and queasiness left me long ago, so I apologize if they've stuck with you over the years, dear reader.

We dashed to the nearby Brighton store, where I asked if they had a band-aid to spare. Well, they didn't have any of those, but they did offer Scotch tape. That'll do. I MacGyvered that pump site right up and said a quick prayer that it would hold until Raleigh. And also that I wouldn't get a staph infection. And that this kind of crap could please just stop happening. And that if it had to persist, then could I at least get a new pair of exorbitantly priced, fabulous, new shoes on huge sale every once in a while? And then I stopped, because I had obviously left the realm of actual prayer.

John and I raced back to our gate, where boarding for the A group had already occurred. We had fairly high B boarding passes, but I just marched him right up to the door and took the families traveling with small children opportunity for those traveling with kids four or under. Yes, John is six, but I was fully prepared to give the icy, "Don't even ask me how old he is" stare combined with the "You do not understand what just happened to us" look of woe. It was unnecessary. And whatever, I totally deserved to go ahead and sit down after all that, right? Then a woman sat next to me for the next four hours, eating her homemade roast beef and spicy mustard sandwich, leaning her elbow completely over the armrest and into my seat, and filing her fingernails. Oh, alright, karma. I get it. Now would you please stop being such a b!@$%.