What a long, long ride

Blood-curdling screams. Orange cones. A steady diet of disgusting, just-off-the-road meals.

These are just a few of the speed bumps, so to say, on a 20-hour drive from Illinois to Florida. But the wife and I made it, in one piece, along with our 2-year-old son and 1-year-old daughter.

We stopped, of course. A lot. We even stayed overnight in Chattanooga, in a train car modified into a hotel room.

So why would we even take on such a tall task? Why put ourselves through it?

I believe the conversation went like this...

The wife: We should visit your dad.
Me: Flying with two kids? Seems like a lot of work.
The wife: We could drive. That might be easier.
Me: Great! Can I get a lobotomy before we leave?

Against our better judgment, we did it anyway. We packed up our car, and shoved off. I couldn't get the song "Holiday Road" out of my head. You know, the one made famous by the nightmare of all road trips taken by the Griswalds in "Vacation".

My son didn't mind the car ride. My daughter did. I don't know what number was higher-- our miles per hour, or her tears per second. I fed her an alarmingly high number of cookies and other assorted treats. Each one worked, briefly.

Yet here we are. Pulling up to our destination felt like a job well done. Like I just finished building a house, only if the boards wailed every time I drove a nail through them.

So now I can relax. I'm on my vacation, and I don't have to do that again.

Wait, we have to drive home too?? Give me a map. Where's the airport?

Time to clean up my act

                It’s a pivotal moment for your favorite team. The tension mounts, the drama builds, the moment is electric.

                And then, just like that, your team blows it.

                You jump up and scream, “WHAT THE ….!” But in a rare feat of restraint, you actually stop yourself from dropping the unholiest of swear words.

                The only problem: Your two-year-old son finishes the expression for you.

                Oops.

                Such was the case this afternoon, as my beloved Bulls fell flat once again, leaving me in sports-world anguish. My emotions got the best of me, and I couldn’t help but voice my displeasure.

                I should have considered my audience.

                My boy is speaking more and more. He’s putting more complex sentences together. It’s really a joy to watch to hear.

                But that also means he’s picking up more social cues from me, and I can’t get away with some of the same things I used to. The truth is, I should have been getting my act together a lot sooner.

                The absolute last thing you want to happen, is for the entire family to be at a more serious function, and for your child to steal the show by interjecting a mouthful of filth—the same filth he learned from you. Suddenly, your child is the “bad influence”, the child that other parents don’t want their kids to be around. But it’s not your child’s fault. It’s yours.

                So I’ve found something I need to work on in my house. No more potty-mouth. No more swearing like a sailor. It’s time to clean up my act.

                For f@&king real.