Suburbs of Our Discontent

Thank the lordy that my kids' Spring Break is over. Those were the longest two weeks of my life. I feel like someone should give me an honorary police badge. We tried to break things up by taking a trip to Phoenix (the only warm city we could get to and still use our miles for free tix) but, as one of my wise friends once said, "vacation" with your kids isn't a vacation, it's a "relocation."

Yes, we got to see some baseball games, and I even got to suck down some margaritas (out of a plastic cowboy boot, but still, better than nothing), but really it was just the same fights about who was looking at who weird and who pinched who first and who gets to sit next to Daddy--just in a different time zone.

There's a reason why Shakespeare left his kids behind when he wanted to take a break and go to London. For seven years. And ever notice that none of his characters took their kids with them either when they travelled? (well, except for creepy Prospero, but he really needed to get a life.)

If the Lears ever went on a family vacation, none of those kids would have made it to adulthood. Can you imagine the fights they would have had over who had to sit in the way back and who had crossed over into whose air space? Regan definitely would have taken out one of her sister's eyes. (I still flinch when I think about those ten-hour car trips and the haunting chant: "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you," as the non-toucher suspended his/her finger one- half inch from my face.)

I bet Hamnet died fighting for the last chicken leg. Or maybe Judith sat on him.

Ah, family.