Grandsons Love Them!!

 

The long Covid really messed up my vacation plans this year. My grandsons were supposed to spend the entire summer with me. Instead, I got them for the last week of summer vacation. Better a little time together than none, right?

I dragged them—kicking, screaming, and clutching their laptops like they were life support machines. “We’re going to do something FUN!” I announced. Their blank stares said, Yeah right, Mema.

e got up early and headed to the aquarium. It was a Tuesday in July, which I thought was perfect. People should be busy working, or vacationing somewhere nice like Branson. Wrong. We pulled into the parking lot and were greeted by about ten school buses. Why? School isn’t even in session! And then I spotted the senior citizen buses. Great—kids wired on sugar and retirees running on coffee, all in the same building. What could possibly go wrong?

At least the ticket line was short. Maybe the buses were just parked for decoration. (A girl can dream.)

We turned the corner into the first darkened exhibit room and—bam!—wall-to-wall kids. Every tank had a line that looked like it was giving away free Taylor Swift tickets. The noise level? Think jet engine, but with more high-pitched squeals.

Grandson #2 muttered, “Let’s go home.”
I laughed. Surely he was joking. I just shelled out $65 to see something. We are not quitters.

We tried to edge into a few exhibits, but then spotted the big draw: today was the ribbon cutting for the brand-new jellyfish pod. Except it was roped off for VIPs, reporters, and TV crews. Regular folk (like me and my $65) could just admire the rope.

Just when I was about to give up, we wandered into the shark tunnel—and miracle of miracles—we were the only ones in it. For a few minutes, it was pure magic. We stood there, gazing up at JAWS cruising overhead, and I couldn’t help thinking, please let this glass hold, because the last thing I need is to become the “mystery meat” in Shark Week’s finale. The boys even cracked a smile.

But of course, the moment ended, and reality came crashing back in. The crowds, the noise, the roped-off jellyfish. Finally, I sighed, “Let’s go home.”

The boys didn’t even wait for a second invitation. I’ve never seen them run so fast in my life. That was their highlight of the day.

But I wasn’t giving up. Oh no. Next stop: the Tulsa Zoo. I’d never been, but I heard it was really nice.

  

The boys were skeptical, but bless them, they still love Mema enough to trust me. Spoiler: bad idea.

It was a mild 87° when we got to the gate, and not a soul in sight. Perfect. I bought our tickets—another $65—but I was optimistic. Then the ticket lady chirped, “Oh, by the way, the train isn’t running today.”
Translation: enjoy your marathon, folks.

We set off for the elephant house—closed for construction. No elephants. Okay, fine. We hiked half a mile to the next exhibit, sweating like overworked zoo camels. On the way, we passed a café. Yes! Ice water, maybe air conditioning! I pulled the door… locked. WHAT THE WHAT??

Next exhibit? Empty. Next one? Empty. By the time we made it to the reptile house—where I was hoping for at least a cool breeze—it was closed too. Out of the entire zoo, I counted about fifteen animals. Fifteen. That’s fewer than the number of times I had to hear, “Are we there yet?” And every café, shop, and air-conditioned building? Locked up tight.

Finally, I caved. “Let’s go somewhere really nice for lunch.”
The boys, panting and red-faced, groaned, “NO, Mema. Just take us home to our laptops.”

  On the marathon walk out of the zoo, we finally spotted a water bottle machine. Sweet salvation! I swiped my credit card—$4.00 worth every penny! Feeling triumphant, I went to swipe again… and realized, in my heat-induced near-coma, I’d used my Sam’s card. The one I haven’t set up to pay online. Translation: stamp, envelope, or a trip to the store. UGH!

I quickly swiped the debit card and tried to mentally note, don’t forget to pay the Sam’s card. Spoiler: I failed. That one bottle of water nearly cost me $24 in late fees. I called Sam’s, explained my zoo-induced delirium, and she laughed so hard she practically gave me a high-five over the phone and wiped the fees clean. Crisis averted!

   The boys still love me even though my fun filled trips were anything BUT...

 Time to meet mom and dad halfway for the handoff. My daughter and I were waiting in the restaurant lobby while her husband and the boys hit the bathroom. The lobby was packed with people waiting for a table.

I sighed. “I feel really bad. Our week was so lousy. I should’ve planned better.”

She reminded me, “Mom, you were going to take them to Colorado, remember? Then you got sick.”

And that’s when I said—far too loudly—“That’ll teach me to sleep with my sick cousin.”

You could’ve heard a pin drop. The whole lobby froze. Did I backpedal? Nope. I just stood there, letting them all wonder. What happens at funerals stays at funerals. 

(For the record, at my cousin’s wife’s funeral it was a full house, and I ended up sharing a bed with his sister—who had a bad cough that, surprise, turned out to be Covid. Lesson learned: funerals are not ideal sleepovers.