I am from New Hanover County, North Carolina. For those of you unfamiliar with the area, there are two types of hills within the confines of the aforementioned county: (1) Sand dunes; and (2) putting greens. On the astronomically rare occasion of snow, children all over Wilmington sneak onto golf courses for the sorriest excuse for sled rides that you ever did see.
I am a flatlander. My ears pop when I go over bridges.
A little over a year ago, my family went on a trip to the Lake Lure area of the mountains. Beach folks are supposed to go to the mountains for vacations and mountain folks are supposed to go to the beach, right? Huh.
Scott and I packed up the Baby Belles and we all set out in the family SUV and headed for the western portion of the State. After a while, the straight paths of the interstates turned into the winding little pig paths that snaked up and down mountains and around waterfalls and creeks. The scenery was beautiful, but we were 2 hours past ready to be out of the car.
Then it started.
Baby Belle 1: “Mama, I don’t feel so good.”
Truthfully, I thought she was bellyaching because she was tired of riding. Baby Belle 1 does a scene worthy of any Shakespearean tragedy when she gets so much as a paper cut. Nonetheless, she claimed that she felt queasy and God knows I never take the threat of barf in the car lightly, so we rolled down all of the windows and I told her to stick her head out like a dog and breathe deep. (Ah, the tender mercies of a mother’s healing hands.)
We made it to the resort successfully, checked in and drove up the ol’ mountain to our cabin. Up, up, up the winding mountain to our cabin. We arrived and stared in abject disbelief at what was allegedly our driveway. I won’t say that it was a 90 degree angle, but it was at least 100 degrees. I totally sucked at geometry in school, but I swear I could prove myself with a protractor on that one.
Scott seemed determined that he could get our cram-packed Suburban up the black diamond slope, but the Baby Belles and I were all for sliding back down the mountain and sleeping in the lobby of the check-in center. In spite of the fact that he was resoundingly outvoted, Scott turned the truck and took it on. He was treated to shrill, eardrum-bursting screams of holy terror from the three females in the car, but he made it. I will furthermore add that those screams occurred every single time we went up and down that damn driveway for the duration of the vacation.
Naturally, everywhere we wanted to go was a Von Trapp Family Alp Trek. We careened to a crafty country store hanging on a precipice over river rapids where Baby Belle 2 got out of the car and announced that she was going to throw up. Throwing up is Baby Belle 2’s super power. That kid can throw up at the drop of a hat and let me assure you that it is a spectacular show each and every time. She yakked right at the front doorstep of the store and I had no doubt that the culprit was car sickness because she used to get queasy when I tried to put her in the little bitty baby swing as an infant.
Unfortunately, the kids weren’t alone. I was about to suffer a serious blow to my pride. I have been on tiny little boats tossing around out in the ocean where everyone else on board was as sick as a dog and I was perfectly fine. I was skipping merrily around the Queen Mary 2 in the icy and churning waters of the Atlantic Ocean between New York and Portsmouth, England while hundreds of other passengers couldn’t lift their heads out of bed. Wusses one and all.
Ashley. Doesn’t. Get. Motion. Sickness.
Ashley got motion sickness.
Naturally, it was all Scott’s fault.
If he hadn’t been tearing around those winding-assed roads like he was on some German car Autobahn commercial, his wife and children wouldn’t have had to suffer on their vacation! It wasn’t like we were on the clock or anything! We could get there when we damn well felt like or we didn’t have to go in the first damn place. Good God Almighty. Great balls of fire. Grumble, grumble, grumble.
Up to that point, I’d insisted that Scott drive because the hills and the angles and general nightmare of the mountain roads was not something that I wanted to tackle, but the time had come: Scott was relieved of his command. I drove like a tranquilized octogenarian. Yep, our Suburban ripped along those roads at a roaring 19-20 miles per hour. Folks on my back bumper just loved me and—oh yeah—I still screamed like a banshee every time I drove up and down the driveway to our cabin.
Of course, when I drove the family to Asheville for a day trip, Scott got carsick.
Now we’ve left the flatlands of the coast and moved to the Piedmont. Honestly, those rolling hills might as well be mountains. To top it all off, we live down a steep slope. Yet again, I screech in horror every time I put the car in reverse, turn off the emergency brake and the car starts to roll toward the house before the gas kicks in. The Baby Belles think I’m hysterically funny and Scott thinks I’m hysterically crazy.
Baby Belle 1 has gotten carsick on a couple of trips to the grocery store.
If you’ve read my other entries, you know that I don’t do snow and ice, so we are tee totally stranded when it comes to winter weather events. I already need a pick and a rope to climb to my mailbox, but I will have to call helicopter rescue if I want to check the mail in slick conditions.
Someone laughingly told me that I would get used to it. All I can say is that I lived in various parts of the area for a total of 7 years for college and, if I didn’t get used to it then, I’m screwed now. Bless my heart.
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