After an eternity of traveling, we've returned to the land of super-sized homes, vehicles, sodas and credit card debt. Speaking of the latter, while the vacation is over, we'll be "enjoying" it in the weeks to come as the charges roll in. As Pete said to me the last night of our vacation, when he was safely home and I was with the kids in a small room near Heathrow, better that we're spending the money making memories rather than having it sitting in the bank. [Let's see how we find that philosophy when we're old, gray or bald, and living in the crappy nursing home we'll be lucky to afford.]
We made it back in four pieces, the kids and I, managing not only to find our way from Manchester to Heathrow with little difficulty but also traversing the wide expanse of the Atlantic and Canada and the U.S. whilst hardly batting an eye. [Although I did bat my eye mightily when discovering Youngest had been randomly selected for an additional search. Sure, a six-year-old American boy fits the typical profile of a terrorist. Just ask anyone.]
And how is it that the flight was done with little complaint? Praise be Sir Branson and his innovative screens for each seat. Who cares that the kids were watching the massively inappropriate Family Guy? I got to watch three flicks on my own without having to cater to their every frickin' need. Might I recommend Son of Rambow to you? And Smart People? And a second viewing of Juno?
We're back. I didn't harm youngest -- too much -- in public. I did note to him on several occasions, however, that he was toast once I got him home. And not the lightly buttered kind with no crust which he favors. He's mine now. And it'll be payback time in the coming days. [Please, no calls to Child Protective Services. Pete's home as well, so Youngest is safe. For the time being.]