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The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us

Candy's Column

The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us

Our Hawaiian vacation kicked off in pretty much the worst possible way:  With Mr. Candy sputtering, “Oh crap!  I left all the toys in my checked bag!” as we embarked on a five-hour flight with a restless 13-month-old.  Being the sensitive wife and evolved mother that I am, I assured Mr. Candy it wasn’t the end of the world, while secretly hatching a plan to hold this parenting faux pas over his head the entire trip.  My plan would go something like this:

“Could you fetch me a Mai Tai, dear?  I mean, I could really use a drink after being forced to entertain our daughter with empty sandwich wrappers and Hemispheres magazine for FIVE HOURS STRAIGHT.”

I think we can all agree it was a brilliant plan — until I screwed it up.

We landed in Hawaii well after Skye’s usual bedtime, which, as any parent will tell you, is not the most ideal of situations.  Although Skye was well-behaved most of the trip, we knew we had reached the point where just looking at her the wrong way could throw her into a tailspin.  WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT LOOK THE BABY DIRECTLY IN THE EYE!  Sort of like feeding Gizmo after midnight, only instead of turning into a Gremlin and launching an unsuspecting townswoman out the window using a stair lift, Skye had the potential to turn into Exhausted Baby, an inconsolable creature that angrily launches sippy cups from her stroller and refuses to sleep ALL NIGHT LONG.

Eight out of ten parents would rather get the stair lift treatment.  True story.

Being in this tenuous position after a long day of travel and saddled with approximately ten-billion-and-forty-two bags, the last thing you want to do is grab a shuttle for Enterprise Rent-a-Car when your reservation is — oops! — actually at Thrifty.  I don’t know why I thought I had booked the rental car at Enterprise, but I DO know that all of my concentration was devoted to avoiding direct eye contact with my on-the-brink Gremlin child.  So, really, the blame for having to wait around for an additional hour while Mr. Candy hopped back ON the shuttle to the airport to catch yet another shuttle to Thrifty so he could get the car and swing back around to Enterprise to pick up us and our four trillion bags (Yes! They somehow multiplied! Just like Gremlins, once again) lies with her.  Right?  … RIGHT?!

*Sigh*  I know, I know.  I totally negated the plan!  Such is how I ended being Mr. Candy’s Mai Tai Bitch.  Oh, how quickly life can turn on us.

Speaking of which, a funny thing happened on the way to Hawaii:  Skye decided she was finally ready to walk.  Like, the first day of vacation she took a few tentative steps and the next…?  She was SPRINTING.

Captured with Mr. Candy’s cell phone crapcorder

You would think it was the beaches of Maui that inspired Miss Skye to finally get on her feet, but no. It was a FREEZING ICE PACK — as you saw in my hands — that made her sprint toward me so gleefully.

I know what you’re thinking, and it’s true: First, we entertain her with articles about “The Art of Pickling” and “Urban Beekeeping” from United’s in-flight magazine, and then we offer her ice packs to play with…? We are spoiling that kid rotten!

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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