the road home (2)
7 a.m. EST
We stayed at a Motel 6 in Lewiston, the kind of klassy motel I used to frequent with my parents on the road trips of my youth. Two beds, oh the luxury. We installed Blake dead centre in the other one, hoping he wouldn't roll too close to the edge. I slept like - well, not a baby (or at least, not like my baby) - but like an exhausted toddler, right until my very own refreshed toddler woke me up in the morning. The ubiquity and impersonal cleanliness were oddly comforting, and the bed was at least as good as ours at home.
In the morning the Boy took full advantage of the complimentary coffee and got us on the road by 7 a.m. Unfortunately, his haste made him overlook our newest companion, and our expensive souvenir Theodore Tugboat was left behind.
The Boy (humming "The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove"): Can I find NPR?
Me: Go ahead. But I don't think they'll be playing "The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove".
tB: It's the Dead Can Dance morning show! Our next caller has to bark like a dog for contest tickets! (bark bark) Lisa, what did you think of that? Does the dog get the tickets? Now it's time for Gerrard to make some of his patented crank calls!
me: You've had too much coffee.
We stopped around noon at a lookout over the Connecticut River. It was a much-needed and yet terror-filled stop for me. Roadtripping with a toddler, especially around a highway, is a cross between transporting a maximum security prisoner and delivering a Faberge egg. They're infinitely precious and can't be trusted not to run off and get themselves smushed. So at this rest stop, sandwiched between a roaring secondary highway and a scenic bridge over a steep river valley, I was on high-alert. Everything was okay as long as we were staring at the state map (which apparently is where ladybugs go to die), but not so good once we had to take a look at the valley. The view was breathtaking, although I'm not sure if it was the sight of the valley or the prospect of a cranky boy twisting out of my arms at the worst possible moment.
It was at this rest stop when we saw the weirdest sight of the entire vacation: a boy of maybe 8-9 years, pedalling a two-wheeler with training wheels. He had a mohawk and was sucking on a soother. Duuude.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*