Saturday, May 31, 2014

Vacation Day 6: And seven and eight ...


On the sixth day of vacation we hiked up Horseshoe Bend, an uphill curve that looks like a) like a torturous bit of sidewalk and b) "Colorado!," according to Ma Pista. It's the kind of 2.5 mile uphill battle that requires whatever those back leg muscles are and a 2.5 mile downhill glide that requires a vice grip, a cinched safety strap for the stroller, and solid knee joints.

Then we went to Bayfront Festival Park and kicked a soccer ball back and forth while the PBG shrieked and bucked like she had front row seats for ... something far cooler than her middle aged parents kicking around a mini soccer ball. (Yet, she was comparatively nonplussed by the DPD's fleet of patrol horses, which clomped through the park and came to rest at a trough where the stage usually goes. 

Teachable moment: "What does a horse say?" Points at horses and says "dada"). 

Realized that though we had slathered enough sunscreen on the PBG to make her look like she was the highlight of the Rolling Thunder Revue, and though I'd goaded Chuck into SPFing the shit out of his forehead, I'd done nothing but apply a tinted lotion with moderate SPF, a sample from Birch Box, as a sort of tryout while mouthing the word "Cosmetics" in the bathroom mirror. 

Here's a special hell: sore legs and a 10-month-old bent on pinching your burnt chest skin. 

On the sixth day of vacation we had Harvey Wallbangers, listened to Juice Newton and ate a mix of pretzels, Sun Chips and Cheetos. 

We couldn't have predicted that our daughter would go on to sleep like The Joker of Jerk Nation. 

On the seventh morning of vacation, Chuck whisked the baby away so I could sleep a little longer. 

"Are you sure?" I asked, rolled over and woke up 2 hours later. 

We went for a walk by the Lake. We ate Snobby Joe's. We yawned. 

In the parlance of the 83 year old neighbor who tends to our yardwork: Our asses were dragging. 

Mostly we wanted to go to bed. Not watch a movie. Not refresh Instagram. Maybe hold each other and rock in terror over the sleepless monster we've created. 

So we had a margarita. Then a Harvey Wallbanger. "What if we saw someone walking down the street chugging from a bottle of Galliano?" I asked.

Then we went to bed while the sky was just freshly dark. 

The PBG woke at 1 am. Then 2 am. Then 2:50 am and 5 am. There was a 6:55 am-er and then the final one at 8 am. 

"Is this where we spank it?" Chuck tired-joked, pointing at her mini keister.
On the eighth morning of vacation I snuck upstairs for a nap, still a little too gun shy to fall too deep.  

She never used to do this. Our champion sleeper has regressed back to something she never was. Maybe if she had been like this at 4 months, we'd be in shape for it at 10. 

"It's like running a marathon without training," I woe-is-me'd. 

Chuck returned to work and I spent all day shivering in fear of bedtime. I also went to Target. 


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