I have made the mistake of planning Christmas Cards around a Griswald family vacation — twice. (I am obviously a slow learner.) The first time was our trip to Disney World when Eileen was 5 and Aidan was 3. I packed the antlers and the princess dress and hauled them around the bottom of the stroller waiting for the perfect photo op to complete my card.
As we walked down Main Street, the crowds magically parted and “AAAAAH!” (angel sound) the castle appeared with no one around it. We threw the gear on the kids and figured this was a no brainer. Look at the camera, smile, click. But unlike home , you can’t scream at your kids to pull off the shot — especially in the Magic Kingdom. We ended up using the picture of Aidan boobing someone and I transformed him into a Super Fan by writing “Goofy” on his stomach 125 times.
We’re going to Disney World!
A couple of years later, we were traveling to Ireland for my sister’s amazing wedding. (That event alone deserves its own blog!) The day we were set to leave, Aidan announced that he would not be joining us unless all 53 of his stuffed animals could come, too. The limit was two. He dug deep and insisted that we leave him behind. Eileen tried to keep the peace by removing toys out of her backpack to sneak in a couple more of his damn dust collectors. Nope, he still wasn’t going. And the more we pleaded, the more he freaked. The cab was coming in 10 minutes and I was ready to lose my shit.
“Buddy, how about if we line them up on the couch and leave the TV on for them?” I beg. “They will take care of the house while we are gone.” He finally agrees.
All goes well during the long flight until we start descending and the whole plane starts shaking. I am trying to calm the kids, when all of a sudden, Aidan erupts and pukes all over himself. Then the kid in back of him starts throwing up on the stranger next to him. The sound of gagging and putrid smell of vomit ignite a chain reaction effect of everyone grabbing for the barf bags, desperately trying to keep their nasty airline food down so they don’t have to taste it for a second time.
“See, mom!” Aidan self-righteously shouts at me, “I told you I should have stayed home!”
I strip him down and pitch his barf garb in a plastic bag on the plane. He wore just his winter coat, underwear and a smile through security, customs and the baggage area.
I am pretty sure that with my Irish blood line, this was not the first time one of my family members has puked on themselves then streaked through Dublin. And it certainly won’t be the last.
In Ireland, all the reindeer are named Blitzen!