Chicago.

I can’t remember how old I was when we stopped taking family vacations.

I know it was after a road trip to Alabama, when my dad accidentally left me behind on a military battleship tour, and I peed my pants, because I am 60% sure I saw a ghost, and when they finally found me in the galley, I had a knife in my hand and no pants on.

I think my parents fought through four states on the drive home.

After that, we didn’t go on family vacations anymore.

We talked about them a lot.

Traveling here or there.  Seeing something or another.

But, the money was never there.  The plans were never made.

Eventually, my father stopped leaving the house.

Family vacations became something I dreamt about.

One day, I’d have my family, and we’d travel all over the country.

We’d go to Disney and Yellowstone and the Alamo.

We’d have suitcases covered in stickers from all the places we’d been.

And then, I had kids, and realized how much easier it was to sit at home in my underwear, drinking wine and watching the travel channel.

Suddenly, my childhood was making sense.

Then, over the course of a year, I’ve started traveling.  Every month, schlepping my suitcase to a new city to explore.  Eating amazing food, making amazing friends, taking pictures of places I never thought I’d see in person.

And, as I was eating some sort of marinated meat on stick, on the corner of 57th and Broadway in New York City, I thought, I want to show my kids this.

So, we planned a trip to Chicago.  Just a weekend away.  A tester.  To see if the kids could handle the experience, and to see if I could get through it A. sober and 2. without murdering anyone.

These are the random thoughts I jotted down from that journey.

1.  I had to explain to Jude, in a rest stop off the Indiana turnpike, what the bloody tampon floating in the only working toilet was, and that just because there was blood everywhere, nothing had been murdered.  Unless, of course, you count his innocence.  And my ability to eat soup.

2.  Hotel beds are almost always better than your stupid civilian beds at home, even if there are potentially giant bugs in them.

3.  Elevators are stupid and scary.

4.  I hate doing the tourist photo dance.  You’re at some important point of interest.  You want a family picture.  You look around.  Does anyone look nice?  Is there another family near you wondering the same thing that you can look at, smile, and exchange telepathic “let’s helpsies” messages with?   No?  What about that guy over there?  Do you think he will say yes?  Oh wait, this teenager just asked if we wanted a group shot, except he looks like the Van der Sloot kid and he will probably steal my camera.  Not on my watch, murderer.  Wait, I’ll ask this old lady, they are notoriously helpful, wait…is she homeless?  Yes.  No.  Wait yes.  Ugh.  I refuse to ask the homeless to take a family picture.  It’s rude.  They aren’t the concierges of outside.  FUCKING FORGET IT.

5.  Wyatt and I in the elevator.

Wyatt: *singing* I don’t love you guys, none of you guys, not any of you guys…

Me:  Um… are you talking about me?

Wyatt:  Nooooo.  I loooovvveee you.  I’m talk about, um, other guys.

6.  The Rainforest Cafe serves three purposes.   To justify overcharging you for shit food by sitting you next to rubber wild animals.  To teach you nothing about the rain forest, except that for $30, you can get a cherry icee in a reusable cup with a giant tiger head and swirly straw.   To make sure that, thanks to a sudden jungle thunderstorm, and subsequent vicious wild animal uproar, your children never sleep again and flinch like an abused puppy whenever Diego comes on.

7.  There was a homeless man in line behind us in Walgreens.  We were buying milk, and he walked up behind me, carrying a small container of milk and a small box of cereal.  He had a handwritten sign asking for help, tucked under the one arm that he had left.  He smelled at least a week out from a shower, and I closed my eyes, willing my children not to stare or say anything.  They don’t understand yet.  I decided, in my head, to pay for my milk and then just leave the change from my twenty to cover the man behind me.  Then Gigi toppled over and smacked her chin on the corner of the counter, bit her lip, and was bleeding.  I reached for her to fix things, Andy paid, and shuffled us out the door.  I turned around quickly to see him through the window paying for his things with change he was counting out of a his palm.  I hated myself.  I cried the whole walk back to our hotel.  I should have turned around.    The next day, I gave money to every person we passed.  The woman in a berka asking for help for her children.  The man on the corner playing the saxophone.  But, none of that made anything that had happened the night before right.

8.  Jude likes cabs.  He calls them cash cars, because you give them cash, and they agree to drive you anywhere you want.   As we walked along the sidewalks of Chicago, Jude kept flagging down taxis.  They’d stop, ask us where we needed a ride to, I explained to them nowhere, and then they’d curse at me and drive away.  On our last day in the city, after a long day at Navy Pier, we agreed to a cash car.  Jude was ecstatic.  As we sat in a traffic jam, in 90 degree weather, in our air conditioning-less car, Jude threw up.  Everywhere.  It was the most expensive cab ride ever.

Next month we leave for Toronto.

I look way cuter drunk when I’m wearing flannel.

I can hardly wait.