Surprise? Really?

We have reached a point in our parenting career where a trip out of town was necessary. Husby's dear grandmother passed away in January, and we were to go to her memorial service in Indiana. St. Nana was called upon to let out our wayward (worthless) mutt, but we were unable to convince ourselves that letting the children out of the house twice a day to poop in the yard would constitute "good parenting". So we packed up the kids and headed out of town.

I made a list of all of the things required for three of us to appear presentable for an hour long function. (Husby, being male, requires no list. He has a bag with deodorant and a toothbrush in it and is good for about a week.) As the bags were filled and items crossed off the list, I began to feel like I was organizing a small army of invaders.

"Look out!" they would cry as the family marched across the state line. "The crazy family with all the wild floral prints is coming to bring an attempt at mid-century fashion to Indiana! Run for your lives!"

In my defense, I didn't realize that all three of us would be kitted out in big floral prints until we were all standing next to each other. I also didn't realize that my floral print raincoat, when paired with my crazy geometric diaper bag, would create such a grinding headache in anyone unfortunate enough to see me. And all that on top of my bright green dress? Oof. Sorry, everyone.

Our trip went very smoothly, meaning that I didn't use a quarter of the clothing I'd brought for the kids. I used only a small fraction of the formula that I'd packed for the baby, though I did deplete our supply of ibuprofen in an attempt to thwart my spring sinus headaches. My over preparation for every possible circumstance did come in handy a few times, so I can at least rest in the knowledge that my new obsession with plastic grocery bags as diaper containers is justified.

But even with my preparation, my amazing children and my ability to sing any number of Barney songs at the request of a tired three year old, 10 hours in the car is a long time. By the end of our journey, I felt a bit grimy and stiff. To combat this feeling, I plopped Fat Baby in a warm bath and used one of the bath toys to pour warm water on her chubby little self.

Husby was scampering about in an attempt to put away all of the supplies I had gathered for our trip. I called out to him from the bathroom to let him know that I wasn't just playing patty-cake with the baby. "I think I'm projecting," I told him.

"Why?"

"I'm pouring all this warm water on the baby, and I don't think she really likes it that much. I, on the other hand, would love a nice warm bath and someone to pour water on my head." I looked at Fat Baby, who actually did have a bit of a smile on her face. Hmm, maybe she did like it?

This gave me an idea. After I finished spoiling the baby, I called Darling Daughter over to the bathroom. "I have a treat for you! A surprise treat!"

"What is it, Momma?" she croaked in her raspy, croupy voice.

"A warm washcloth to wash your hands and face!" I was so proud of my idea.

Darling's face transformed in a heartbeat to one of tearful disbelief. Her bottom lip stuck out, her cheeks got all red, and she sucked in a huge lungful of air to launch a protest. "I want my surprise!"

"This is your surprise, baby! Doesn't that feel better, being clean?" My explanation didn't help at all. Husby was chuckling from the safety of the other room.

"No! NO! I want my surprise! I! Want! My! Surprise!" After voicing her articulate arguments, Darling abandoned reason and wailed wordlessly while I stood there with my damp washcloth.

"You know, that was a pretty crappy surprise," said Husby. "Good luck with that one."

I cast about for a replacement surprise while my tired and grubby daughter expressed her dissatisfaction with my parenting skills with increasing volume. Juice? We'd just brushed her teeth. A Popsicle? Way too late at night, and too messy. Nothing seemed to be a good fit.

Inspiration struck again, though I was a bit insecure about my version of "treats". I raced over to the pantry and poured an assortment of children's vitamins into my palm. I offered to let Darling pick out which one she wanted to eat. She settled on the purple Dino and grumbled quietly to herself as she wandered out of the kitchen. Whew. Saved by the dino.

The razzing continued long after Darling had gone to sleep. My husband wanted to know just what the hell I was thinking, offering a three year old a nice warm washcloth. "Here, dirty child, get clean! Won't that be nice?"

"You know, in first class they give you a warm washcloth to freshen up with after a long flight. It's lovely."

"Unless you are three, in which case you would be horribly disappointed that all you were getting was a modified bath!"

Fine. Whatever. But don't come crying to me when all you get with the next trip is a bag of peanuts!