“Put your shoes on,” I cajoled, bribed, threatened, and plain begged my four-year-old Antichrist. His golden mop of hair flopped messily into his angry brown eyes as he vehemently shook his head—and kicked his feet—“NO!” I kneeled at his fierce little pissed-off body, struggling with strategy: should I surrender my battle to shoe him and instead focus my attempts on wiping his face? The tears were diluting the snot that streamed steadily from his ice-cream-smudged button nose, and I felt he’d thank me in later years for not adding an ungraceful crying photo to our vacation album.
We hadn’t taken that many “happy family” vacation photos that day. With the early-morning sleep-hangovers, the DC rush-hour traffic, the scenic route (read convoluted/wrong way) to our hotel, the too-late lunch, and the 100-degree heat, our ambitious plans to do DC in a day were flat-lining.
We’d just spent a few lovely days with friends in Virginia and already expended the kids’ monthly sightseeing quotas checking out the very cool Science Museum of Virginia and other sights. I’d thought to break up our trip home with a day in DC to get a quick taste of the city’s sights and see the Washington Nationals baseball team before they moved to their new stadium. It had been a great idea at the (air-conditioned) time and surprisingly easy to pull together at the last minute. We got a nice hotel for a nice rate, and we’d had no trouble scoring seats for the Nationals game. Leaving the hotel that morning, we’d felt charmed—the vacation Gods were smiling upon our sidetrip. A few hours later, there were no vacation Gods, maybe no God at all, and definitely no smiles.
We’d dragged ourselves for many hot miles, lingered outside five museums, stared at the Monument, been somber at the Lincoln and WWII memorials, posed in different combinations before various official-looking backdrops, and now I was determined to take our happy-family picture outside the White House—if I could find it. I was lost in the backside of the White House, and losing in a family vote to just bail. I’m sure if I went back now, sans screaming, shoeless child, frustrated husband, and truculent ten year-old, I’d waltz easily up the front drive. I’d also cool my heels for a few minutes to offer some genuine soothing to my stressed toddler, to assure my pre-pre-teen that we’d make the game, and perhaps even pat my husband on the back.
PREVIOUS PAGE
