This past weekend, The Wife and I sojourned to H-town, for some q-time with the fam and friends. After spending Saturday with my dad, we took Fletch to spend the night with some friends. We left Dad's right around Fletcher's typical bath time. So, he was starting to get grumpy.
Rarely a fan of the carseat, especially when The Hunger stirs, Fletch began to get vocal on the way to our friends.
"How far is it?" Not far, dear. I have my trusty google map in hand. Huh. I can't find the street. Surely we missed it. Let's turn around and try again.
Meanwhile, The Boy is now at Defcon 2.
Nope, that street is definitely not there. "Rick, are you reading that map correctly?" "Yes, call them for clarification on the directions." No answer.
Fast forward 15 minutes. And raise the volume 70 decibels, or, for those not familiar with a dB scale -- about the noise a jet engine makes. Fletcher is now at Defcon 1.
And still no answer from our friends. Fletcher is now beginning to flood his carseat with his crocodile tears.
Still no answer. And the in-laws are out of town. And no answer from Jen's sister. By this time, the only one in the car NOT crying in yours truly. The prospect of stopping in unfamiliar territory is not attractive, as night has fallen. (Do you know Houston?)
I am happy to say that we did eventually get a callback; the directions were in fact in error (lucky us that this is the one error for Google Maps); and we made it to our friends house.
And the moment we stopped the car, so Fletcher shut off the waterworks.
Fletcher is the sadistic warden of a very elaborate prison.
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1 comment:
S-I-L,
You are definately a candidate for my expertise help! You need to take a look at my "Tom Tom". Once you you get your hands on it, you'll never want to be without it again. And you'll never get lost again!
F-I-L
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