Tuesday, July 17, 2012
The only part of Finn that does not agree with vacation is his stomach, specifically with the entry/exit portion of the trip. I know that I mentioned that he puked on me last time, but I chalked that up to severe turbulence. Our flight back to NY a couple of weeks ago was pretty smooth, but we weren't taking any chances when he started complaining about his stomach on the flight.
You know how that old proverb goes: puke on me once...
I had the bag out and everything. I was ready. I was so smooth that I was holding it with one hand and reading my book with the other. Then we landed, and I relaxed. And then Finn started really crying as we taxied to the gate. He wouldn't sit still, so I put down the bag to pick him up.
Shame on me. Thankfully, Kitty is a genius and was carrying wet wipes. We sure needed them.
From here on out, we're not just packing an extra set of clothes for Finn in the carry-on, we're packing for the whole family.
Of course, after that rough entry, everything was sunshine and hot dogs. Finn played in the pool and the creek with his NY grandparents; fell in love (with a Bostonian no less - curses!) at his grandfather's beach house in RI to fireworks (where he also congratulated his father for surviving said fireworks); and spent even more time back in the water in CT while celebrating his Mema's birthday. Quite a bit going on, but after the flight in, nothing was able to top him again. That is, until his Mom decided to give him a driving tour of all of the major landmarks of her childhood.
I believe he fell asleep somewhere between the store where she and Holly broke something one time, the place she bought her first field hockey stick, and a place where she had her best tuna fish sandwich.
I think I just fell asleep typing that.
Anyway, great trip, but so freaking hot that the only way to survive it was to plant yourself in the aforementioned pool/creek/beach. Finn tamed the heat with a new game that he invented called "Fall Down Water", which consists of... um... falling down in the water. Repeatedly. And not gently, but violently throwing your body into the surf. For like two hours.
We need to teach this kid how to swim this summer before he manages to kill himself on the edge of the beach. That would be embarrassing.