I'm Going to Graceland (Part 1)

Dear Little Trip,

Either because we really missed our Southern family or because we have slightly masochistic tendencies, we thought it would be fun to hop on a plane and fly across the country this month. We've done this baby on an airplane thing before, but last time you hadn't quite figured out how to actually propel yourself in any meaningful way and now, of course you are personally offended if not allowed to run in eleven different directions in a span of 4.9 seconds. But since we are too uncool to live dangerously in any other exciting way these days, the airplane thing almost seemed like a fun challenge. Almost.

It is too bad that despite your love of airplanes you had no idea that you were actually on one once we boarded. But there were a host of shiny new objects to play with and poke, and many passengers to flirt with. Mama had a giant bag of new toys and chatchkies to entice you with and as expected, the plastic cup from Dada's drink was the best part of the ride for you.


You can tell he knows he could make the whole plane load of people sorry they took this flight if wanted to.

After an epic battle of Dada vs. the car rental lady over her attempted denial of a Chevy Impala to us (Dada victorious), and a an even more epic battle of Dada vs. the car seat (car seat victorious), we made it to Uncle Allan and Aunt Laura's house. And by house, I mean large-house-full-of-unfortunately-low-placed-decorative-items-that-call-lovingly-to-inquisitive-one-year-old. You got busy destroying anything within your reach, while remembering to smile at these unsuspecting nice people who actually believed they did a little child-proofing. Well maybe they did. But child-proofing and Trip-proofing are not of the same world. Not really the same stratosphere actually. By the end of the first night you had a bloody fat lip, but you went to bed fed, bathed and happy. Until you started crying an hour later. Mama gave up right away and brought you into our bed, where you preformed calisthenics all night and kicked each parent in the head on alternating hours.

The next day Aunt Laura became your new favorite person ever by feeding you blueberries and chocolate chip pancakes, and then we headed to Hot Springs to see Gran, Big Daddy, Mema and Papa. We had a yummy lunch at the country club, where a plethora of sweet, if slightly blue haired ladies came to dote on you, and Gran happily fed you lunch and chased you around some golf carts.


Four generations! Thank goodness Papa has the life experience to know that toddlers need to explore everything. Everything.


Gran, I am going to touch every surface on this tiny car. Twice.

After lunch we went back to Mema and Papa's house, and Gran and Mema fretted over letting the pugs in, hoping they wouldn't scare you too much with their jumping and barking. It took about three minutes before you were the one chasing the dogs, and about three more before the dogs were desperately looking for a piece of furniture high enough to escape your probing hands. Mama watched blissfully as Gran chased you around the house and yard for a few hours, fed you copious amounts of blueberries and showered you with trucks and cars and other toys. Everyone was sad it was such a short visit, but maybe the four of them were secretly just a little bit glad to have some quiet after the storm that is you!


Wait...what do you mean we all have the same name? You guys are blowing my mind....


Probably dismantling some small, priceless, family heirloom while the two pugs cower in fear.


You're smiling now Gran, but you are going to be so tired in three hours!


Big Daddy's face suffers the same probing fate as Papa's.



Let the home wrecking begin!


Max is checking out the fresh diaper smell, I am just sure of it.


Eating is hard with a busted lip. But I make an exception for "boo boos" (blueberries).

We had an awesome dinner with Jerry, Trish, Baby Jack and Steffie, Miri and Jason back at The-House-of-Tantalizing-Objects-In-My-Reach, and you went two for two by loving on a concrete dog statue too hard and scraping your chin. You spent another lovely hour in the crib Allan and Laura had struggled to set up before kindly screaming your lungs out to Mama and Dada to come and get you so that bed calisthenics could commence once again.


Mama fails at convincing family that this is the first time you have ever had a Cheeto.


You do little to bolster my case.


It is highly possible that Jack already outweighs you. And plans to eat you for dinner.


Seriously, it is always my kid that's throwing the whole thing off. You can't make this stuff up, people.

We drove to Memphis the next day and made a mandatory stop at Craig's BBQ in Brinkley. Craig's is about as old as Arkansas, and it is possible they have never cleaned the floor. This is only a problem if you have a one year old who likes to bend over and run his grubby fingers on said floor before promptly inserting grubby fingers in his mouth. We had some yummy sandwiches and admired all the truck drivers who came in, and we all got very excited every time we heard a truck drive by. Every. Single. Time.


BBQ Fest 2010: Let the games begin!


Dada's eyes roll back in chopped pork bliss. Trip scores a little sauce off Dada's face.


No Mama, this is definitely baby proofed! It says right here in fine print that babies should stick their fingers in it.

Then, my little friend, it was TIME FOR PIE!!! This little corner of Arkansas has a wonderfully disproportionate representation of pie ladies. We restrained ourselves and only visited two.


Miss Lena initiates you into the world of Southern Pie.


But Miss Mary scores a lifelong devotee by putting the blessed word "fried" in front of "pie." You try to convince her to adopt you. She, however, has heard all about you and gently but firmly passes you back to your Mama. And then she slips me an extra fried pie.


And the loving of lard and apricots begins...


Mama is just making sure it's not too hot.