Visiting the Memorials
We're now back from a long weekend in D.C., where we stayed with darling friends, ate excellent food, and dragged the child all around various museums and national monuments.
The child, who's 8 (he'll be 9 in August) has long been a trouper -- you can pretty much drag him anywhere, and feed him anything. Point of honor with him.
On Sunday, however, we overtaxed him. He solemnly read all the inscriptions at the Lincoln Memorial; he helped his dad find friends' names on the Vietnam Memorial; over at the World War II Memorial he listened to his mom talk about his great uncle, shot down in the Pacific; he once again read all the inscriptions, over at the Jefferson Memorial; he climbed on the rocks on the F.D.R. Memorial, and then he was impressed with the Rolling Thunder.
Trouble was, the Rolling Thunder was, at last estimate, 400,000 bikers strong, and when he realized that we were NEVER going to be able to get across Constitution Avenue and make our way back to lunch, and the hot tub, and the Dog That Loves the Visiting Little Boy, he broke down and sobbed in despair.
He tends to be a bit dramatic.
I comforted him, and told him sometimes everybody has to sit on their mothers' laps and weep, and eventually it was time for the police to stop the Rolling Thunder and let us cross the street, and we got home and later went out for Ethiopian food.
Which we had never had.
The child loved it.
He's fine now. And we're back on the house-buying project -- or, rather, Sam is, cause I'm going off to work.
For those of you who are keeping track -- I'm leaving on Sunday for England. Not to worry. I will, as I did last time, blog from the road.
But I'm not going to Wisbech this time. So none of those $90 taxi rides, this time.
The child, who's 8 (he'll be 9 in August) has long been a trouper -- you can pretty much drag him anywhere, and feed him anything. Point of honor with him.
On Sunday, however, we overtaxed him. He solemnly read all the inscriptions at the Lincoln Memorial; he helped his dad find friends' names on the Vietnam Memorial; over at the World War II Memorial he listened to his mom talk about his great uncle, shot down in the Pacific; he once again read all the inscriptions, over at the Jefferson Memorial; he climbed on the rocks on the F.D.R. Memorial, and then he was impressed with the Rolling Thunder.
Trouble was, the Rolling Thunder was, at last estimate, 400,000 bikers strong, and when he realized that we were NEVER going to be able to get across Constitution Avenue and make our way back to lunch, and the hot tub, and the Dog That Loves the Visiting Little Boy, he broke down and sobbed in despair.
He tends to be a bit dramatic.
I comforted him, and told him sometimes everybody has to sit on their mothers' laps and weep, and eventually it was time for the police to stop the Rolling Thunder and let us cross the street, and we got home and later went out for Ethiopian food.
Which we had never had.
The child loved it.
He's fine now. And we're back on the house-buying project -- or, rather, Sam is, cause I'm going off to work.
For those of you who are keeping track -- I'm leaving on Sunday for England. Not to worry. I will, as I did last time, blog from the road.
But I'm not going to Wisbech this time. So none of those $90 taxi rides, this time.
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