The Trip That Didn't Suck

We went to Hershey Park on Sunday.  The kids went on some rides and ate some junk food.  We went back to the hotel and went swimming.  Then it was dinner at a brewery, the "tour" ride in Chocolate World, and back to the hotel for swimming and bed.

No meltdowns.  From anyone.  A Christmas Miracle.

Now to a "typical" family, our outing may have seemed a little dull.  To us, it was glorious.

We're learning.  I'm learning.

Here's the thing:  there are few things I love more than planning fun vacations for our family.  Our getaways tend to be long weekends, and I do my best to plan them carefully to get the most out of our time away.  My mantra is Maximum Fun. 

I used to take pride in my careful preparations.  (Hell, I still do.)  When Big Bro was three, I timed our Breakfast with Pooh so we'd be out in time to be at the velvet rope when the Magic Kingdom opened.  It was our last day and we had a 2 pm flight.  So when they dropped the rope, I took off!  I sprinted down Main Street, USA, with my son in the stroller, whooping and clapping.  My husband, who didn't understand the deal, jogged behind me and whined.

     "Mel!  What are you doing?  Why are you running?"
     "My baby is getting on the Peter Pan ride ONE MORE TIME!"

I'm MaxiMom, the female version of Clark Griswold.  (And if you know anything about Clark Griswold, you know it all goes wrong.)

I was forgiven for my mad dash down Main Street, USA, but that was before The Boy was born.  The Boy doesn't hold with such planning.

The best laid plans of MaxiMom oft go astray--like the time I spent a fortune on zoo tickets, and he only wanted to look at the pigeons. 
Or the time we went camping at the beach, and the boy and I fell into a cactus. 
Or the time he yanked out his tooth and flashed his junk to the people in the hotel. 
Or the time he had a meltdown in Chocolate World and threw my purse into the ride. 
Or the time he did a Code Brown in the hotel pool and then cried because they had to close the pool because of said Code Brown. 
Or the time he had such an awful meltdown in the car that my friend passed me a flask of bourbon and I actually drank some. 
Or the time at Eastern State Penitentiary when EVERYONE was bitching about everyone else, and I wanted to lock them all up in Al Capone's cell and go get a beer.

Another miracle!

That's usually how our trips go.  But not this time.  This time I didn't worry about whether my kids had gone on enough rides for me to feel like we got our money's worth.  We didn't push.  We kept him regulated.  For example, after two back-to-back roller coaster rides, we chilled out on the monorail.  He got a little upset when his favorite ride was closed, but we substituted another, and everyone was happy.


We plied them with ice cream.

Our treat.

And then there was beer.  Did I mention the beer?


P.S. Hershey Park is wonderfully accommodating with special needs, so if you're thinking about going, I'd highly recommend it.  Any bad experiences we had in the past were our own damn fault.

Oh, and neither Hershey nor Troeg's is paying me for this review.  But I wouldn't say no to free tickets and beer!  (Ahem!)

Autism Travel Log: Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Shove--Part 2

This is the continuing story of a somewhat hellacious weekend trip with the family that I began here.

Yes!  We arrived at the hotel and found my husband, looking clean-shaven and dapper, waiting for us.  The boys ran up to him as if he were the hero they were waiting for.  Daddy, Daddy!  It's Daddy!  Hey, Dad!  Dad's here!  Mommy, who had driven them, put up with them, and bought them food, was forgotten.  I didn't care, because I was thinking, He's here!  He's here!  Thank God!  Maybe he has a glass of wine for me!

Peep Show!

We brought our stuff up to the room, and I immediately noticed a problem.  The window in our room
faced into the atrium of the hotel.  For some people, such an arrangement would be weird or a little cool, but for the mother of a perpetually naked child, it was going to be a challenge.  I mean, he might as well hang a picture frame from his waist and announce, "Conventioneers and members of the wedding!  Behold my junk!"

We were going to have to keep clothes on him.

But first, the pool!  Yes, let's chill these whiners out with a dip in the indoor pool.  Oh, what an idea!  They were happy for the first time all day.  Please don't splash Mommy.  I just had my roots done.  Do you think brown hair just grows out of your head?

My husband's ONE JOB in planning this whole trip was to find a restaurant for dinner.  He's a chef, a foodie, and is great at finding just the right place.  He knows our requirements.  Any restaurant we go to must serve french fries, ice cream, and chocolate milk.  The restaurant is preferably a little noisy, so we don't disturb other diners, and has booth seating, so we can keep the boy in a seat.  Unbeknownst to me, my husband must have taken up crack-smoking, because he made a reservation at a charming and quiet English pub, with no children's menu, no milk or apple juice, and no ice cream.  The seats were short stools.  It was a disaster.

"I wanna go to Pennsylvania!" the boy cried.  Me, too, buddy.  Me, too.

We went down the street to the Franklin Fountain, a really cool old-fashioned ice cream shop.  They housed their giant sundaes.  They were happy for the second time all day.

We returned to "Pennsylvania", which is the boy's word for the hotel, with the hope that he was worn out enough to sleep.  No such luck, alas.  He refused to settle down.  First, he wanted to sleep with his brother.  Then he decided it would be more fun to shove him off the bed.  So I made him lie down with me.  I scratched his back, and just as I thought he was drifting off, he stood up and took a flying leap onto the other bed where my husband and Big Bro were sleeping, and kneed my husband in the pills with all his weight.

I settled him down again, and must have fallen asleep for a bit, because I woke up to him shaking me and saying, "Take it out, Mommy.  Take it out, please."

"Take what out?" I asked.  He responded by shoving my fingers in his mouth.  He wanted me to pull out his tooth.

"I'm not doing it, dude." I murmured, and fell asleep for real.  I awoke in predawn hours to the sound of the boy singing.

"Peanut butter...we love peanut butter!"  I opened one eye, and felt around on the bed for him.  I found a bloody tooth, but no boy.

"Peanut butter!  That's what we like best!"   Where was he?  Not in the other bed.  Not in the bathroom.  But then where...?

"Do you like it on your head?  Yes, we like it on our head!"  I followed the sound of his voice to the curtains, and saw two bare feet between the curtain and the window.

Oh, God.  No...

Oh, yes.  There he was, butt-naked and singing, pressing his genitals against the window in full view of a very resigned-looking janitor who was vacuuming below.  The boy turned to me and grinned, his glasses and missing tooth making him look like a deranged jack-o-lantern, and continued his song.

"On your head?  On our head!  OHHHH!"

And that was just the first night.

Autism Travel Log: Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Shove--Part 1

I've been a mom for eleven years, so I should know by now to keep my expectations low.  When Big Bro was born, I planned to breast feed.  I had images of serene bonding time with my angelic newborn.  Dressed in a white eyelet nightgown, with my hair cascading in long, flowing locks, I would relax in a white wicker rocker with my baby suckling contentedly, as the sun crept in through the gauzy curtains.  The reality was louder and messier.  He wouldn't latch on, neither of us could stop crying, and the whole thing ended with me standing topless in the kitchen, applying cold cabbage leaves to my tits.  (It's not as sexy as it sounds.)

So I've learned a thing or two about expectations versus reality.  But I really thought I wasn't crazy to imagine a fun and educational trip with my family.  After all, we'd had a very successful trip to DC six years earlier.  The boy cooed and giggled in the baby carrier and Big Bro was charmingly interested in everything.  Let's do it again!

Only now my adorable older son is eleven and turning into a surly tween, and his brother cannot be confined to a baby carrier.  But eff it, we're going anyway.  Philadelphia, here we come!

My husband was working in Atlantic City and would join us later, so I had to drive the three and a half hours with the kids by myself.  Three and a half hours of whining, seatbelt unbuckling, and fighting over leftover Halloween candy.  Three and a half hours of cursing my husband under my breath for getting to drink and gamble, while I dealt with the bitching and eye-rolling.  Three and a half hours to wonder if this was such a good idea.

Effin' tigers are so cool and nobody cares.

But I was determined.  The Philadelphia Zoo, you guys!  Check out all these amazing animals! 
Tigers!  Look at the tiger!  I said, look at the tiger!  It's right effin' there.  Will you look at the effin' tiger for eff's sake?  I did not drive all this way for you to look at pigeons.  French fries?  Are you kidding?  You just ate.  Fine, I'll buy you $6 french fries, but then we are looking at some effin' animals.  Ice cream?  It's freezing.

"I wanna go to Pennsylvania!" the boy wailed.
"We ARE in Pennsylvania," I insisted, but he was having none of it.

How about the carousel?  Yes, the carousel was good.  How about the train?  I bought train tickets before seeing the actual train, which was a glorified golf cart with some wagons attached to it.  It just went in circles.  Big Bro and I went with him, and made snarky comments about the scenery.  The boy made choo-choo sounds, so we thought he was liking it, until we disembarked and he made his next demand.

"I wanna go to Disney World!"  Translation:  This place is not cool.
"We're not going to Disney."
"I wanna go to Pennsylvania!"
"We're IN Pennsylvania!"  Effin' hell.  Time to meet my husband at the hotel.

After much hectic driving through city traffic and begging for some cooperation and/or quiet, I pulled the car up to the hotel, at which point the boy cheered, "Hooray!  Pennsylvania!" 

That's when I realized that Pennsylvania means hotel. 

(Note:  A whole lot of other crap happened, but nobody has the attention span for long posts, so I'll write a part 2.)