Travel and toddlers.

They go together like nitro and glycerin.

On Friday, we took the pilgrimage to my parents' for the extended weekend. Didn't quite beat the Great Metro Detroit Holiday Traffic Exodus, unfortunately. It turned what should have been three hours into five plus. Within twenty five miles of our goal, The Boy™ said he wanted to go home. I muttered "Fine--here's your coat and a map." Heather gave me The Look.

A piece of wisdom in child naming: if you name your son after your father, your dad will permit said child to commit murder or other high crimes, all with an indulgent smile.

A good time was had by all, and surprisingly we got a swim in as it proved to be much warmer than predicted. The water was still spring-icy, but all the more refreshing for that. It was a five-cousin riot, but all the kids were well-behaved. Dad was able to use his new multiburner Uber-Grïll to feed the hordes, the Jet Ski was deployed and I received early birthday presents (more on that later).

The trip back was faster (read: better timed on my part), with the only problem being a harsh sun beating down on the right side of the vehicle. That made it difficult for Rachel to sleep, and I had one of those irrational moments when I wanted to rip the sun from the sky and stomp it for making my daughter cry.

Oh, and the vacation parish has backslid. Badly. More on that later, too, as it involved a pernicious use of the laugh line "dialogue."