Birthday Bumped!

This year’s birthday blowout was not to be. That rare event where my birthday falls on a Friday night was trumped by a 14 and under girl’s volleyball tournament. I think the last time the Friday night birthday stars aligned, I was 19 and couldn’t enjoy it either. I vaguely remember doing something semi-heroic, like joining the Peace Corps or whale-saving. Or it could have been the night I was secretly dating a circumferentially-challenged Ivy Leaguer and Big Glenda was more of an “inside” date.

But back to the tourney. You know the type, you travel the night before and stay in a hotel so you can comfortably make the Saturday 7am starting time (where you will then sit in a near catatonic state for 12 hours until your child kicks over your sack chair and tells you its time to leave). But hey, its sunny out, it’s my birthday, I optimistically think “Road Trip!” I grab my wife and try to carb-up for the 120 miles of rush hour driving by quaffing margaritas alongside plates of Mexican delicacies consisting of various shapes of congealed cheese. Unfortunately, we carbed too early (premature carbolation?) and were left with a few hours waiting for the children to arrive home from school. Which, I found out, is exactly how much time is needed to build a full-blown Todd Rundgren “Bang on the drums all day” headache and decrease my trip enthusiasm to pre-prostate check levels. At long last, our children returned and we piled into the Suburban and headed for Mentor Ohio.

            To ensure our children’s comfort, we checked out the amenities on-line prior to our arrival at our destination’s Comfort Inn. Finding only a few gang symbols tagged on the outside and an inside pool mostly free of waterfowl, we were confident that our lodgings would be passable. For children however, any hotel stay is a mini vacation. So even though we were booked into what is the equivalent of the Radisson’s clubfooted stepsister, we shared the kid’s excitement as we pulled in after our 2 hour journey.

            We were greeted with a fairly large lobby boasting an old-time two-tiered staircase and a sign exclaiming “Free Toast!” for those fortunate enough to gather in the lobby at 7am weekdays. Our desk attendant signed us in, offered no baggage assistance and unashamedly passed wind as he handed me the keycards. His gastric aggression aside, he was quite helpful in explaining our room location by mumbling “Up there” as he waved a hand in the direction of the massive staircase. Undaunted, the children loaded the bags on me like an alpaca and we followed a Sherpa up Mount Stairway to our temporary digs.

            Our room was a pretty standard 1960’s model, 2 double beds, swivel TV, with probably enough DNA on the walls to look like a Rorschach test if you held a black light up to them. But the kids were excited to swim, so we dumped our bags, pulled on the swimsuits, mixed a travel cocktail and headed to the pool. The journey to this indoor oasis took most of the evening, as we followed arrows through a multitude of hallways, staircases and fire doors with pausing once to pick up a toll-card as we scurried across the turnpike. Cold, exhausted, and with an extra child we picked up on the way (we called him Petey), our group fell into the warm water for the last 5 minutes it was to remain open. Afterwards, in the cab ride back to our room, we all agreed that it’s wise to purchase a second Tom-Tom for mom’s purse to avoid future complications.

            Now famished, we head back out to find a reasonable eatery and come upon a crowded parking lot surrounding a blinking sign that beckons us into an Italian restaurant. I recon the situation first by asking the rather hard-looking hostess if this is a “place for kids”. She shrugs and growls “Yeah. It’s a fucking family restaurant”. And although I’ve seldom heard the f-word used in promoting family-friendly establishments, I liked her instantly and whistled for the clan to come in. After dining on portions fit for community picnics and now 30 lbs heavier as a group, we head to our beds to collapse. But sleep does not come easily. Laying on Chicklet-sized pillows and listening to hours of a screeching woman arguing with what sounds like a large Wolfhound keeps slumberland just out of reach.

            6am comes too early. Especially since I spent a good hour at 3am regifting to Mentor what I had received hours before in Italian cuisine. With 5 family members, morning bathroom time had to be shared to stay on schedule and we were challenged with a tiny bathroom containing a shower the size of a Mike & Ike box. Whenever I turned my body, my “frontlings” smashed into the soap shelf and my backside plopped into the vanity sink. It made it pretty tough for the kids as they brushed their teeth. But we all managed to clean up and headed out into the frigid cold to the tournament venue.

            Usually these tournaments are held in large college gymnasiums or field houses. We stepped into what must have been a refitted munitions factory from WWII. Enormous does not give it justice. 30,000 sq. yards of floor space with a ceiling so high you could make out weather satellites buzzing around the distant rafters. Heating was non-existent, forcing groups of fathers to disappear deep into the building for hours and come back with fresh seal skins draped around their shoulders to keep their clans warm. Tiny villages popped up around heavy people who emanated warmth. I shivered enough to chip a tooth and lost a nipple to frostbite behind court 3. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the lackadaisical effects of hypothermia set in and allowed us to sit quietly during the dozen hours of matches.

            My daughter’s team was the last to leave, as has been the custom. We all hugged Petey, sat him in a sack chair with a blanket, some water and goldfish crackers, and taped a sign to his head stating “Found in Mentor. Housebroken. Talks little, Eats less.” We then trekked with our heads down the whole mile to our parking space, hoping the car heater had a “cremate” setting. Finally reaching the Suburban, we collectively sighed as we climbed into the spacious seats. Looking into the rearview at my three kid’s faces as we pulled away, I thought to myself, “Enjoy this time. One day that backseat will be empty except for these memories.” As I fondly lingered on the sight, I watched my son headlock his younger sister who was defending herself with sharp elbows into his stomach and listened as my oldest daughter whined loudly about “actually starving to death”. Back to reality, I kick the heat up a notch and began running through my mind the excuses I could possibly use to get out of next week’s trip. I just hope somebody finds Petey. Such a good, quiet kid…