Today Dad and I took the kids up to West Point for a short tour and a look at a solid bit of American Military history. We drove up the Palisades Parkway and through what I am sure is lovely scenery when luscious and alive, instead of dry and dead. The drive was pleasant, the baby slept most of the ride there, and Monkey was in high spirits, playing “I Spy” and singing along with the radio.

We stopped in Highland Falls and went into the Visitors Center and the Museum. Monkey really enjoyed looking at all the heavy artillery, and loved going around with her Da looking at the swords, muskets, canons, and tanks. We saw a diorama of the Battle of Saratoga, a civil war field doctor’s kit, a WWII field doctors kit, and a myriad of other tools of war. Then we ate at Suzie’s, a little restaurant boasting 371 Hot Dog topping combinations (including one called the Lithuanian, containing mashed potatoes and sauerkraut) and 54 separate Hamburger combinations. I, of course, had a dog with relish and mustard (apparently called a ‘sweet dog’) and cheese fries. These fries turned out to be the best cheese fries I have ever had. A warm plate of potato slices friend crispy and then slathered in cheese, salt and spices. It may even be worth the two hour drive to go back there is summer and consume more of these tasty little fries.

After lunch we went onto West Point, took a short tour through the campus, and then the kids and I hung out in the cafeteria area while Dad conducted his interview with the Assistant Dean.

We snapped a ton of pictures of the gray castle like structures and surrounding Hudson, but my computer is turtle-esqe tonight, so I can’t load them. Here instead is a picture of Monkey and Da in front of the Abrams Gate:

My mother always used to say that she really paid for it anytime she left the house without her kids (namely… well, me and my brother.) She would go out for an evening of wine and frivolity and inevitably return to stomach flu, or a head injury, or weeks of clinging, needy children.

I always thought my mother had a flair for the dramatic. There was no way we were that bad.

Ha…. ha ha …. HA!

I got home from many wonderful hours in NYC with my Dad, lost in the humorous and magical world of Broadway’s SPAMALOT. I was calm, mellow, relaxed. I had conversations uninterrupted by the anyone chirping the word “Mommy?”. It was divine.

Then they made me pay.

The baby nursed…forever. Okay understandable, and snuggly, and cute.

I can deal.

Then came bedtime, and the screaming, kicking, crying thirty or so minutes of torment devised by my six year old. You see… she had something in her eye. She needed some Visine to help get it out. However, she didn’t want me to put the Visine into her eye, so after much screaming and fighting, I agreed to give up and let her go to sleep without Visine. This decision resulted in thirty or so minutes of screaming, kicking, and crying about how much she needed the Visine.

Sigh.

Then, the cat threw up in the laundry room.

And my bedroom.

And her bedroom.

And the Living Room.

Right… and under my desk where I stepped in it when sitting down to blog.

Because my mom is not overly dramatic. She is right.

They really do make you pay.