Traveling With A Three-Year-Old. Or How I Ended Up Wearing Ladies' Deodorant.

Traveling with my daughter Grace is what I imagine it would be like hanging out with Charlie Sheen, minus the hookers and blow.  Nobody sleeps, there's lots of arguing, at least one person thinks the weekend is "pants optional" and the hotel room is trashed.  After chasing The Girl around Philadelphia for two days, I have so much more respect for those daredevil parents that elect to travel with 2 or 4 or 8 kids.  Although, I figure when you reach a certain amount of children you link them together like an old Southern prison chain gang and herd them from place to place.

Even though I have just the one child, she has enough gear that it feels like I'm packing for more.  And sometimes weary dads get so caught up packing all the DVD's, books, snacks and crayons that they forget to pack their own stuff.  Like their deodorant.  Sometimes these dads don't realize their packing error until five minutes before it's time to leave for the rehearsal dinner.  These dads get to wear Mommy's deodorant for the night.  Fortunately, Secret lives up to at least half its billing.  I can't tell you if it is indeed pH balanced for a woman, but it is strong enough for this man.

Whether it was the excitement, all the neopolitan cake or the confusion over why Daddy smelled like Mommy, we had a helluva time getting Grace to sleep later that evening.   Bringing The Girl on trips forces many concessions including giving up that sweetest of travel treats: hotel sex.  But I draw the line at giving up a good night's sleep.  At 11:30, with the lights having been out for a long time,  Grace was still up trying to get in more bed jumping than all five little monkeys combined.  Fortunately, she didn't pull a monkey move and fall off and bump her head.  (Though, the next night an accidental head butt did send Amanda scrambling for an ice pack.)  No amount of singing, story-telling, threatening or bribing could get Grace to lay still.  Once she did fall asleep, she became a magician, contorting her body to make even a king bed tiny.

I shouldn't complain so much, because traveling really is easier than it used to be.  Expressways, GPS and EZ Passes all make my life easier.  So do travel games, portable DVD players and book lights.  One supposedly useful tool does not, however.  Is there a more inconvenient convenience than the juice box?  Maybe it should not surprise me that I have trouble with juice boxes considering that I earned the nickname Lil' Squirt for my inability to open a plastic fruit cup without spilling the contents, leaving a urine-looking stain on my lap.  I can't be the only adult that hates juice boxes.  Any container that, under my daughter's light grip, squeezes enough to send its contents squirting across the car is less than convenient.  I know there are those hard plastic boxes with handles that you can put the box in so the kid can't squeeze it, but I have a problem with needing accessories for my snacks.  And if I have to remember one more thing to pack for Grace  I might forget something less important, like my underwear. 

For this trip Amanda bought a juice-toting product that was new to me.  Unfortunately, this Minute Maid Pseudo Raspberry Synthetic Red Summer Citrus Cooler was nearly impossible to open.  I mean it.  I would have an easier time getting into Harvard than into this foil juice packet.  Where the arrow points to "Insert Here", there is no plastic circle like on other juice boxes.  Only more foil that does not want to be pierced with the meager straw included with the pouch.  Like fumbling virgins, multiple pokings failed to produce penetration.  Finally, looking like Vincent Vega plunging the adrenaline syringe through Uma Thurman's sternum in Pulp Fiction, I was able to get the straw into the packet.  Of course, concentrating on hitting the target with force with my right hand distracted me from noticing how hard I was crushing the pouch with my left hand.  Therefore, as soon as the straw punctured the foil, I inadvertently squeezed most of the juice all over the back seat of the CR-V.  At this point, it wouldn't be any messier to squeeze the juice from the fruit with my bare hands. 

But, as often happens with children, one magic moment can change everything.  When Grace walked down the aisle smiling, being a super-cute flower girl, every spill, every "Are we there yet?", every suitcase lugged into the elevator was worth it.

Just Another Day At The Office For Caps Fans

Of course he did.  Of course Joel Ward took a "terrible" (his word) penalty that led to the Rangers tying Monday night's game with less than seven seconds remaining.  Of course the Caps were swept under the tidal wave of excitement in New York and quickly succumbed in overtime.  After 25+ years of watching the Caps, of course I should have expected nothing less.  Joel Ward was the sorry son of a gun at which Lady Luck pointed her cruel finger, but the truth is if it wasn't Joel Ward it would have been somebody else.  A puck would have deflected off Mike Green and found the net.  Braden Holtby would have lost the puck in the sun.  Alexander Semin, on a breakaway with the GWG on his stick, would have been swallowed by a dragon that swooped down from the Garden rafters.  BECAUSE IT DOESN'T MATTER.  When you are the Chicago Cubs of the NHL, you know deep down that the other shoe, no matter how preposterous, hovers overhead.

If losing in 3 overtimes in Game 3 was a gut punch, then Monday night's loss was a staggering hay maker.  One that I'm not sure that Capitals can recover from.  If they can, they will prove they are as resilient as I think they are becoming.  If they can not, Joel Ward joins a dubious list that makes any long-time Caps fan wretch.  You know the names, you know the moments: The Easter Epic. Petr Nedved.  Gonchar falling down in OT.  Esa Tikkanen.  Joe Juneau failing to connect on an OT penalty shot.  Tom Poti.  Up 3-1.  Martin St. Louis.  Devastating moments that leave a trail of broken remote controls, profane tirades, stomped-on emotions and summers of discontent. 

Personally, I feel sorry for Joel Ward.  There are examples of sports figures that have gone from hero to goat even faster, but Ward took quite a hit in twelve days.  As someone who has taken a penalty in overtime of a playoff game, I feel his pain.  Obviously, my beer league playoffs didn't have nearly as high stakes, but, believe me, two minutes never moved slower than watching a sudden death period from the penalty box.  Fortunately, my buddies bailed me out.  Joel Ward was not so fortunate, yet he manned up and spoke to reporters after the game.  He didn't run from his mistake and Dale Hunter shouldn't run from him in Game 6.  I have friends who would bench him or release him outright, but is there any player who will play harder than Joel Ward Wednesday night?

Because I am stupid I am trying to remain upbeat.  Every bit of historical evidence suggests that there is no reason for optimism.  Yet, I shall remain positive.  Positive that the Caps can win Game 6.  If for no other reason than a Game 7 loss would be that much more excruciating.  And expected.

I'm Over the Overstuffing.

On a whim the other day Amanda submitted Grace's photo to a Gap casting contest.  Normally we're not into those sorts of things, but we figured, "Why not? Maybe she'll be plucked from obscurity and have a little fun."  Deep down, though, I know the truth.  Grace's big break will come when A&E produces Hoarders:Toddler Edition.  Grace, at just age three, is a precocious hoarder.  Unfortunately, in this regard, she is doomed by heredity.  My grandmother is a textbook case shopaholic/hoarder, my mother epitomizes the "One person's trash is another person's treasure" mindset(In a good way; she can breathe new life into broken down furniture and junk.) and I am one of those people who likes to keep things because I "know I can use it for something".  Grace doesn't stand a chance.  Recently, she was drinking lemonade from a 20-oz. fountain cup and straw.  Upon finishing she told me we could not throw away the cup or straw because she needed them for a "project".  She proceeded to explain how she would cut them, fold them, glue them and cover them with glitter, with the end result being a house.  Creative, yes, but Grace seems to have also inherited my procrastinator gene; the cup house sits unfinished on the counter instead of in the garbage where it belongs.

If Amanda and I aren't careful, we will raise a true bag lady.  Grace already loads her toy shopping cart with junk and pushes it from room to room.  It is not a huge leap from there to shouting bible verses at passing cars and sharing your bowl of tuna with your twelve stray cats.  In fact, if she wanted to pack her posessions and hit the road today she already has plenty of bags.  Tote bags, purses, recycled gift bags, backpacks - our playroom has held more sacks than Jenna Jameson.  And stuff!  Trinkets, fake jewelery, toys, crayons, papers, stickers-we have so much stuff.  Don't get me wrong- I appreciate all the gifts, large and small, that she has been given.  Heck, I enable her hoarding by picking up inexpensive stickers here and there or encouraging her to collect cool rocks and sticks on our exploration expeditions.  But some days walking into my house feels like I've been dropped into the Death Star trash compactor.  If I can't raise C-3PO on the radio soon, the walls will keep closing in and I'll be crushed in a pile of Barbies and Disney Princess DVDs.  (I just realized that I put myself in Luke Skywalker's shoes.  Lame.  I used to, and always will, pretend to be Han Solo, the coolest smuggler in the galaxy.)

So, why does my house, and the houses of most people I know, contain too much stuff?  Because America has become the Land of Accumulation populated by an army of hoarders.  I don't mean the clinically diagnosed, mentally ill that won't throw away rotting food or who poop in a grocery bag and toss it in the corner.  I mean the normal people that fill their homes and lives with things.  To some, acquisition is a sport, keeping up with the Joneses.  To others, new and shiny things are substitutes for other items missing from their lives.  Sometimes I think we get trapped into thinking we "need" crap that we really don't.  Why else would I be consumed by an avalance of Tupperware every time I open the cabinet when, in truth, we only use the same three or four containers over and over?  Wedding registries, that's why.

Hear me out.  When you get in that store with that scanner you start firing away like you are Han Solo blasting your way out of the Mos Eisley space port.  (See, he's much cooler than that tunic-wearing loser from Tatooine.)  Senseless Acquisition Mode takes over."Goblets?  Hell, yes we need crystal goblets!  Probably about seventeen of them.  Picnic basket?  I love picnics!  Useless spoon rest?  You bet.  Of course, the spoon rest is only useless until the night your new bride comes home and, instead of thanking you for the spaghetti dinner, rips you for staining the countertop with sauce.  The point is, running around Macy's, Target or Bed Bath and Beyond you can lose your mind, adding things to your wish list that you neither need, nor would ever spend your own money to purchase.  Follow the wedding with a baby shower, baby's first Christmas, birthdays, Arbor Day-there are dozens of excuses for more gifts junk to enter the home. 

Oh well, maybe Grace's Hoarder's money will pay for a new storage shed.  Otherwise, all three of us will have to take to the streets with our shopping carts.