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.