Are we there yet? Part I

Roadtrip 2009. Destination: Melbourne.

Holidaymakers: Me, Mini Man x 2, ex-wife and my mother (cue stabbing strains from the movie Psycho).

I sound like I’m a sucker for punishment, but I had a great time considering I spent over 16 hours driving with my ex-wife and my mother whose constant babbling can vacuum the air out of a car in moments.

No road trip is complete without a child emptying the contents of their little stomach and crazy relatives arguing and bored children screaming.

Add a few gay friends, a glass sliding door accident, confusion over a gay nightclub, shopping malls and a naked tourist into the mix and you have a typical Meyer family vacation.

I squeezed between the two car seats in the back and lavished the boys in excited kisses and tickles to start our trip.  My mother was already joking I was ignoring her from the front while my ex sped off down the road to the entrance of the Eastern Distributor.

Ten minutes later and my ears were already bleeding from the cackling from the front passenger seat. My mother talks quite loudly as she can’t hear very well and thinks we all need shouting at.  I looked over to my eldest and he had his lips pursed between forefinger and thumb, whispering I need a sick bucket daddy.

Being the triage nurse that I am, I had the old empty margarine (sick) container under his chin with one hand, rubbed his back with the other and told the ex to pull over, my mother to pipe down and explained what was happening to his little brother.

Arriving in Melbourne the next day, we headed straight to Luna Park in St Kilda, where the boys were immediately put off by the scary face at the entrance.  Thirty dollars and a two-minute elephant joyride later, we collected our winnings from the revolving clown-head machines and headed off to the apartment in Prahran.

We passed The Market and I overheard my mother and ex comment on how fabulous the shopping is inside and how they can’t wait until tomorrow to pop in and pick up a few things.  I giggled and corrected them, telling them trading goes on inside, but usually by men only.  They noticed the picture of half-naked men on the front and nodded their heads quietly.

My miniest man is completely obsessed with all things Thomas the Tank Engine, including real-life trains.

(Un)Fortunately, our apartment, while being uber-gorgeous on the inside, was facing the southern line.  Every time a train roared past, mini junior ran out onto the balcony to wave it off affectionately.

On one occasion, he didn’t notice the sliding door wasn’t open and ran headfirst into it.  Flat on his back, he let a scream rip that I’m sure hit a pitch only dogs can hear.  He was fine after being picked up, a facewasher applied to his forehead and an Easter egg put in his mouth.

That night we all went to sleep-¦ I heard the front door burst open-¦

Next week: A naked Pommy intruder and The Freemasons.