Homeward Bound

The rest of our time in DC is wonderful. A tour of the Ford Theater, more time in the Newseum, shopping, fabulous food, more time in the pool (sans the Toe Cheese Obsessed Cretin), a visit to the National Zoo, and an interesting encounter with an angry, aggressive homeless woman wearing a sequined ball gown who we evidently disturbed while making one last visit to the local Krispy Kreme.

We make sure we are leaving with lots of souvenirs.  The hot item at the White House Gift Shop (NOT on the premises of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, by the way) was the Presidential Bloopers CD.  Trips, falls, flubs, malapropisms of Presidents, First Ladies, candidates, Veeps...hilarious all. I knew Gerald Ford was a klutz. I had no idea how many times Nancy Reagan wiped out. I'm surprised the Secret Service let her wear heels.  But alas, it was back ordered.  The kids get t-shirts.  Hil gets a pin. Pat wants to browse the aisles of the Spy Museum shop.  Hil and I are going to do some back-to-school shopping at a cool department store nearby.

Of all the things that my son could have as a souvenir of our trip, just what do you think he chose?  No, not a Lego model of the Capitol Building. Not an FBI Jacket. 

A ski mask.  a ski mask that when pulled down over the skier's face (or that of the bank robber or ax murderer) gives the impression that he is wearing a gas mask. 

Of.
All.
Things.

I have the Spy Museum to thank for that. And the nuclear hazard bedroom door sign.

But eventually it all must come to an end.
We leave late in the afternoon on Wednesday, anxious to get home to Trinket. A few orbits of Du Pont Circle where we miss our turn onto Massachusetts Avenue a few times and we are finally on the road.  My nerves are shot and I am already missing the kids. Such a great trip leaves me with such a sense of loss when it is over.  We talk all the way home about our favorite parts of the trip.  Pat says he liked everything. I think he actually means it. He'd like our time together if we were in Beirut.  It's the kind of togetherness and freedom we all crave.

We encounter unusually heavy traffic.
We are delayed by a multi vehicle accident that snarls miles of I-95.
Rush Hour inflicts its usual dose of mayhem.

Pat is in a panic.
His high school orientation is at 7.  We will be cutting it close.
Lars has begun calling all the cell phones in the car. He is pressuring Pat to get home (as if Pat has any control over the car...).  He is getting pissy. Asking questions. When did we leave? Why so late? What was so important.  Threatening Pat - he'll miss orientation. He'll be completely lost on the first day of school. He'll be the only one who has no idea where his locker is.

He'll also miss (the rare) dinner Lars prepared. (Can of soup, bag of peas...)
He won't have time to shower before he goes, even if he gets home in time. Nice impression.
And it is coming through loud and clear that Dad is pissed.

He is doing his usual dance. The Mom-Only-Cares-About-Herself-And-Should-Have-Thought-About-You-For-Once-And-Now-Look-At-The-Trouble-You're-In routine. We know it well. It is performed any time the kids are thrilled with anything I've got going on.  It ends with Lars pissing all over it.

I am wondering why I hadn't thought of killing him in his sleep instead of asking for a divorce when I did.

The Patron Saint of All Things Traffic Related clears the path. I drive like a bat out of Hell and screech up to the curb in front of our house in record time.  Pat hops out and races to the shower. Hil and I greet the cat, and begin to lug everything into the house.

In just a few minutes, Pat has had a quick shower, a quick grilled cheese sandwich and we are bombing toward Lars' house.  Pat is visibly relieved.

My beautiful trip to DC has again come to an end.  And in the usual style. I quietly say goodbye to each child, warmly but quickly so Lars does not remark about the affection he observes.  They walk to his door and turn to wave.

Somehow I always feel like I am sending them into the lion's cage alone and unprepared.

And again, I pull away from the curb on Lars' street and try not to cry until I've reached the corner.