Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Hotel Hell


Ever taken a 3-year old on an excruciatingly long road trip, only to then toss said 3-year-old into a confining and crowded and oh-so-freaking-claustrophobic hotel room?  No, you say?  Well, how about adding to that?  Try two little monsters of the 3-year-old variety, one 13-year-old girl, one 9-year-old girl, a husband, and a mommy who clearly and very desperately needs a higher dose of certain meds.

Words cannot fully express the level of Hades I experienced.  Seriously.  I’m pretty sure I would rather be dragged behind a speeding car for several miles rather than go through the hotel torture.

I’m sure our hotel neighbors were either thinking a) that were were, in fact, torturing small children, because their screams were oh-so-tortured sounding or b) that we had ditched an entire herd of unruly children, leaving them with no adult supervision whatsoever in order to keep our sanity.  Well, let me assure you, neither of those things happened.  Although, I would seriously, SERIOUSLY consider the leaving them behind in the room part if it weren’t for all the crazies in the world who might try to steal them.

There was screaming.  And crying.  And some huffing, hormonal teenage fits.  And I’m pretty sure that the boys made at least a couple calls on the hotel phone before we could get their dirty little paws off of it.  And somehow, through all of this, SpongeBob kept getting louder in the background because Marissa couldn’t hear the television.  So it was this cacophony of sounds that, when all mixed together, sounded sort of like a train de-railing during a rock concert (which I have never witnessed, but I can make certain assumptions about the level of LOUD which must be present at such an event).

Anyhow, we had to spend two hours “resting” in the hotel room before it was time to go to dinner, which in 3-year-old terms equates to eleven gazillion years, and omg what in the world can we dig up in this place to occupy our time for eleven gazillion years!?!  By the end of that two hours, Mommy was ready to either check herself into her own little padded cell or go sit in the car.  Yes, it was something like 10 degrees outside, but I did not care.  I would have gladly taken a case of vicious frostbite in lieu of the hotel hell I was enduring.

We walked to the lobby for cookies and decided to watch the big lobby television for a while—because we are adventurous and exciting like that—and that’s where Jordan decided to completely melt down because, I dunno, maybe his sock had a wrinkle in it or something.  So after several not-so-subtle glares from the front desk, we hung our heads in shame and headed back to our room.  After grabbing a handful of cookies to stuff in the monsters’ mouths at the next sign of any disturbance.

When it was finally time to go to dinner, I ran out of that hotel like it was a burning building.  Yes, I ran.  Left the kids and Jason to fend for themselves.  Survival of the fittest, y’all.  Or the craziest.  I don’t think I could have taken one more minute in that little room.  The running and the bed jumping and the toilet flushing and the phone calling and the drawer slamming had finally gotten to me.

And the place we went for dinner was really nice—one of those make-your-own stir-fry kind of places.  But as much as we tried to go for the look of hip, together family with well-behaved children, I’m afraid what we pulled off was something more like omg-can’t-those-people-do-anything-with-their-children?!

Jordan emptied several packets of Sweet-n-Low into his bowl before I even had the chance to sit down, and Jadon was busy jamming chop sticks into his straw and playing a rousing rendition of a chop-stick drum solo on the table.

Knowing my picky eaters, I carefully selected plain noodles, chicken, and cheese for their stir-fry.  Sounds yummy, right?  As soon as I sat it in front of Jordan, he simply looked at it and said, “No.”  Jadon was content to stab the food with his chop sticks, but he refused to eat it.  So I went back to the line, armed with an empty bowl, and filled it to the brim with tiny little mandarin orange slices.  The boys had oranges for dinner.  And I stuffed my dinner in—and then begged to be taken back to hotel hell so that we could get our crazy crew out of PUBLIC.

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