Restination

Behind the Target off Hwy 111 is a mountain. Well, from far away it looks like a mountain. Once you park on the street just across from it, you recognize it’s only a hill. But we let our kids believe it’s a mountain.

“Are we going up the mountain, Dad?”

“Yup.”

We’re on Spring Break visiting my folks in Rancho Mirage, which is a desert suburb 15 minutes from the Palm Springs airport. Me, Pam, and our two kids; Nola who’s 9, and Judah who’s 5. We were here a couple months ago for Winter Break, too. But for Thanksgiving, we were in Miami visiting Pam’s parents. Both sets of our folks are at a point in their lives where they can use the word winter as a verb. It’s nice. We’re lucky.

My folks have a home in Mission Hills, a gated community that surrounds a golf course. Gated communities that surround a golf course within the Coachella Valley are like two bedroom condos anywhere else in the world. They’re ubiquitous. It’s where people live. But they are absolutely a real-life oasis in what would otherwise be dry dusty deserted desert.

It’s spring so everything is BEAUTIFUL. Well, the carefully maintained areas inside the walls of Mission Hills are beautiful. Crazy beautiful. The geraniums and snapdragons planted around the palm trees are a curated and botanic explosion of orange, red, and yellow. They hurt your eyes if you look too long. Maybe it’s a combination of the longitude and latitude of Southern California plus the altitude of the desert floor multiplied by the angle of the sun hitting the collective refractive properties of sand, but AHHH, MY EYES! (It could also be the crappy sunglasses I got at Walgreens.)

The trees that aren’t of the palm variety are burdened with fruit. I’ll say that again so you understand I’m not using any kind of poetic license. The trees, specifically the branches, are weighted down with giant yellow grapefruits the size and shape of regulation volleyballs. Also there are lemons that look like bright yellow footballs. There are tangerines, too, like lacrosse balls, but they’re small and have been on the trees for too long, which is why there are so many on the ground. The part in Grapes of Wrath that describes how you can pick fruit right off the trees is absolutely true. My parents have a tool they carry around with them on their golf cart that’s part stick and part cage. They call it a fruit picker and I guess that’s what it is, but it looks like something that belongs to someone in pest control.

Their golf cart isn’t fancy. They bought it used. It’s regular. Beige with darker beige trim. Judah LOVES the golf cart. It’s the BOMB. I know he loves his grandparents, but would he love them as much without the golf cart? It could probably go either way. As it is, he continually asks Pam’s parents about their golf cart. But they don’t have one. Or a need for one.

Yet.

My dad took Judah out on the cart the other day. They went to get fruit to throw in the juicer, which was exciting in and of itself, but Judah was especially amped when he ran inside. More amped than normal.

“Dad, I drove the golf cart! I steered and I did the pedals, too!”

Judah can barely reach the pedals let alone see over the hood. Also he’s 5. There’s no way he was actually driving the golf cart. Mission Hills doesn’t have the well-heeled hubcaps you might find at Mira Vista or Versailles, but it’s no backwater burg either. Some of the homes here are #nextlevel. They’re the ones featured in magazines. Not just architectural magazines. Any magazine where someone might point to a spread and say, “Can you imagine the taxes on that thing?” Bottom line, you don’t see kids racing around on golf carts up in here.

“I don’t think you did the pedals, bud. That’s for big-”

“I did! Grandpa let me!”

Grandpa, by another name, is Dad. My dad. The one who makes me put on a jacket when he thinks it’s ‘chilly’ and I’m clearly standing there in shorts and a T-shirt.

“Grandpa let you?”

“YES!”

“Is that right,” I ask looking up at my dad as he crosses to the kitchen with a heavy bag of grapefruits. He smiles and shrugs. My mom, who’s sitting at the kitchen table with Pam, is more upset than she probably needs to be. Pam, who’s surprised, takes her cues from me. I don’t really care. Everyone’s in one piece. Also it’s a rite of passage. But I am aware this rips a hole in the time-space continuum. The familiar landscape of holding my son on my lap and letting him steer while I work the pedals has been forever altered.

“You sit next to me, Dad. I’m a big boy so I’m going to drive. You have to sit next to me and not touch anything.”

It’s so incredibly adorable when Judah refers to himself as a big boy, because it’s so incredibly earnest and counter to reality. He’s very much a small boy. I can easily hold him with one arm. And if I have to wipe chocolate off his chin, excavate something from his nose, or tickle him, I can pin him down with a gentle hold and basic gravity. But now when we go for a ride on any given morning — which is just a ride now (not some fruit picking ruse) — I have to sit NEXT to him. And keep my hands and feet to myself. He actually drives better this way. He’s much more focused. Perhaps because he has agency over the vehicle? Dunno. But he does have a tendency to drift toward the center of the road.

“Right-hand side, bud.”

“I am!”

“But you’re not, bud.

“I AM!”

“Do you even know what right-hand side means, Judah?”

“No.”

“Ok, well, let’s stop for a second. Show me your right hand. No, the oth- there you go. Everything from the middle over to here is on the right-hand side. When you’re driving you have to stay on the right-hand side. Ok?”

“Ok.”

“So right-hand side, bud,” I say as we set off again.

“I am!”

“A little MORE on the right-hand side. Also, hold on a sec.”

Because I might as well go all in.

“Let’s learn this now so it doesn’t cause a problem later,” I continue. “One foot to rule them all, ok? The right foot, bud. Just the right foot. When you want to slow down, take your foot off the gas and put it on the brake. No, just the one, bud. There you go.”

He gets this pretty quickly. Perhaps he’s a driving savant. Or simply a good ol’ country boy. Regardless, what’s nice is that Judah prefers a gentle leisurely drive rather than opening things up and seeing what the cart can do. So while it’s not like I can close my eyes and take a nap as he shuttles us from place to place, he does seem to have this.

The College of the Desert is only 10 minutes from my parent’s home. On the weekends they host a street fair in their parking lot. Not sure why it’s called a fair. There aren’t any rides or games. It’s more like a market. You can get golf balls, socks, hats, sandals, shoes, sunglasses, belts, slacks, shirts, CBD oil, yard art, art, jewelry, patio furniture, tacos, hot dogs, etc. The draw for us is that we can get something to eat that has nothing to do with waiting in a restaurant or creating a mess in my parent’s kitchen.

There were tons of people walking around, mostly older folks in thick-soled mall walkers and large dark sunglasses. Most were sucking down lemonades and passion fruit Arnold Palmers (which you can get near the entrance and at the end by the Perfumes 4 Less) as they ambled along. But these silver-haired seniors were all kinda looking at me. Like they were leaning in to check me out while they passed the other way; as if I was some young Adonis.

We stopped at a collection of Moroccan clothing; loose sweaters, knit dresses, linen scarves. Not much for dudes unless you’re Steven Tyler. So I was just standing there. An older woman stopped in front of me. And seemingly stared. I smiled politely.

“Heaven,” she asked.

She said it like we knew each other from church. Or Mahjong. But I don’t go or play. Then she pointed at my shirt. Oh, right, MY SHIRT!

“It’s a reference to Field of Dreams,” I said pretending to swing a baseball bat. “See, I’m from Iowa and we have a grocery store there called Hy-Vee. It’s nice. There’s a helpful smile in every aisle. Everything is fresh and well-lit. It’s sorta like Trader Joe’s, except the shirts are less loud and the aisles are much wider. Also the parking lots are totally normal.”

The woman smiled. “Oh.”

And that seemed to break the spell. No one was staring at me after that. Almost like word got out…

“Nah, don’t bother. He says it’s a grocery store.”

Fun Fact: Almost all my T-shirts represent Iowa in some fashion — so to speak. Like 85–90% of them.

The college was having a book fair (no rides or games either) as well and Nola wanted to go. So Pam took her and Judah while I got my parents a passion fruit Arnold Palmer to share. My parents are totally capable of getting their own drinks. But it makes me feel useful, and like I’m paying them back for everything they’ve ever done for me — albeit pennies on the dollar.

“You guys wait here,” I said sitting my parents on a bench in the shade. “I’ll go get everyone and then we can go.”

It takes me a while to find the book fair because there’s also a blood drive (two vans parked on the cul de sac). It shouldn’t be that confusing, but the signs for both point in opposite ways. And they have the same font and a similar color scheme, so…

I find Pam and the kids. Judah is rearranging the astronomy section and is carrying a book on the history of Spain.

“Are we are we are we are we going soon,” he asks when he sees me.

“Slow it down, bud.”

“Are. We. Going. Soon?”

“Yes.”

I look over at Pam who’s looking at Judah. I shake my head in the slightest way when I catch her eye.

“Anything,” I ask smiling.

“No,” she says looking down at the Greek mythology books near her. “Not really.”

“How about you, punkin?”

Nola shakes her head and holds up an encyclopedia on cats. The book is old and seems like something you’d find at the vet — in the back room on a high shelf in the far corner under a layer of dust.

“They don’t have anything on horses,” she says setting it down near a biography of Sylvia Plath.

Nola is in a horse phase. Books, movies, documentaries, Netflix shows, Prime shows, iPad games, toys, stickers, coloring books, t-shirts, pants, pajamas, socks… Horses. When we were here for Winter Break, the Coachella Valley Horse Rescue had a tent at the street fair. They gave Nola a calendar. She memorized all the horses and I think she looks at it EVERY day — and NOT because it’s a calendar.

The Rescue is located in Indio, another desert suburb in the Coachella Valley. Specifically, it’s at the foot of the Indio hills on the other side of Hwy 10, roughly a half hour from parent’s house. On a map, this is literally a gray area.

Dad: Where are these polo grounds?

Steve: What?

Dad: Aren’t you taking the kids to ride horses this morning?

Steve: Yeah, but they’re not polo grounds. It’s in the desert. It’s near a place where they make concrete or something.

Dad: Oh.

I don’t know if my dad (originally from Brooklyn) really thinks horses are kept on polo grounds, or he’s trying to not-so-subtly warn me. My mom already told me a story about a family they know whose daughter got into horses when she was young, and the next thing they knew they owned two horses, a horse trailer, and a pickup — and they were driving all around the state so their daughter could compete in dressage. But we’re not there yet. At least I don’t think we are.

The CVHR doesn’t have trails. They have a bunch of pens where they keep their rescued horses. And there’s a small corral with an equestrian obstacle course; a little bridge, some logs, tall poles from which you can ‘weave’ in and out, and something that’s sort of like a car wash with streamers you can ride through. We went last time, and we called ahead to go again.

It’s extraordinary to see Judah around a horse. He has no fear; which seems antithetical to his being as that’s not how he is with dogs. But maybe that’s because dogs aren’t as calm. A horse just stands there, like a tall couch. I guess if horses jumped around in a circle trying to catch their tail while wildly neighing, he’d be pretty freaked out. Of course, so would I.

Equestrian therapy is a thing. We have friends who have done it with great success. We’ve thought about it. But not unlike competitive dressage, we’re not there yet.

Judah is too little to do any trail riding so it’s just as well there’s only a coral. I lead him around the ring while Nola gets an actual horse riding lesson. I went to horse camp as a kid. I loved it. I like to think of myself as someone with horse sense, but I’m no equestrian. I have no skills to share with my daughter other than to suggest she have some more confidence, to show the horse who’s boss. But there’s a crazy cat/horse lady vibe to the woman giving her a lesson and these horses have suffered enough abuse and neglect. I don’t need to pony* up any advice.

The most exciting thing that happens during our horseback riding session is when Nola’s horse stops and lifts its tail.

“Why is it stopping?” asks Judah staring at Nola’s horse from the vantage point of his horse.

“Yeah,” calls Nola from her horse. “Why is Riley stopping?”

Again, I know nothing of bits, bridles, or buckles, but I did go to horse camp. “She needs to poop, sweetie.”

“What?”

“Poop!” shouts Judah. “Your horse needs to poop!”

Riley lets go with a chorus of hearty plopping. Nola is slightly embarrassed, but Judah’s very very amused.

“Why is it pooping, Dad?”

“All things poop, bud,” I say trying to play it down. “You know that.”

“That’s so silly.”

“It’s just poop, bud. No big deal.”

“Judah!” shouts Nola. “Stop laughing at Riley!”

“I’m not!”

I lead Judah around the other way. But for the rest of our session whenever we get near where Riley took care of business, “Watch out for the poop, Dad.” I don’t need the warning, though. I’m aware.

“Are we are we going swimming today, Dad?”

Judah has reached his equestrian peak. He’s on his way down.

“Yeah, bud. After lunch.”

Within Mission Hills are several swimming pools. They’re spread throughout the property. We go to the one just off the golf course. Although, now that I think about it, I believe they’re all just off the golf course.

Nola is a fish. She’s very comfortable in the water. She gets right in, too. Not a hem or haw. For Pam, getting in the water is a ‘process’. She would rather the pool present itself as an oversized bath. Of course, I’m not much better. Once the water gets to my waist I have a tendency to stall out. I’ll stick to that depth and walk around with my arms raised as if I’m trying to conjure up a hot spring from the earth’s core. And if Nola’s within a 5-foot perimeter…

“Nola! Nola! No splashing!”

“I’m not!”

“You’re moving! Don’t move!”

The trick is just to get under the water. Embrace it. Know this is where you’re going to be for the next hour — at least. And that prune will be used as a verb.

For Judah to get into the water, well, he might as well be going to the moon with all the preparation, gear, and salve. As a redhead, his skin is fair. And Pam, perhaps rightfully so, is fearful that direct sunlight will cause him to ignite, like flash paper. (I’m sure there’s a word for this — dermaheliopyrophobia?) So she slathers him up with SPF1000, or whatever’s the current highest number. He also wears a long sleeve rash guard and hat. In addition to his solar safeguards, Judah will also don goggles and a flotation device. He doesn’t seem to mind if the goggle strap mashes his ears down, but he’s very particular about his water wings, which has a part in front and a strap that attaches in back. He likes them way up on his arms and will not accept anything less than an inch from his elbows. I don’t begrudge him that. I’m the same way with shorts not going past my knees.

Nola has taken lessons. She can swim, but I wouldn’t call her a swimmer.

“Dad, look! I’m doing the butterfly!”

She has both arms going at roughly the same time, and I can sense a dolphin kick under the water, but butterfly? Struggling moth is more apt. I’M a swimmer. I was one of the captains of my high school swim team. I had to shave my head and entire body for Districts when I was a freshman. For most of the year from when I was about 8 until I went to college, my skin smelled like chlorine and my brittle hair had a golden-hued toxic shine. It’s pretty much everything I can do to not get in there and correct her stroke. But I’ve NEVER been one to pull wings off a fly.

“That’s great, sweetheart! Wow!”

We’re all in the water now. Nola is practicing synchro moves in the deep end and Judah is jumping off the side to Pam.

“Closer!” he yells.

“Judah, I can’t get any closer. You’re going to jump on top of me if I get any-”

“CLOSER!”

The negotiation ends when Pam takes a step forward, and then a quick step back as Judah launches himself. I have to admit, the kid’s got pretty good form. His height and extension are good. Is he Olympic material? It’s hard to say. Not sure if jumping from the side of the pool is recognized as a category.

Yet.

As the media czar/tech guy, I’m capturing everything with my phone in its waterproof case. But it’s only a matter of time before Pam is done and Nola is bored…

“Can you give us a ride, Dad?”

I’ve lost countless amounts of body hair to my children’s tiny yet powerful hands in the past. My new technique is for them to each hold on to one end of a pool noodle while I hold on to the other. Then I race-walk around the shallow end. I’m not an NFL running back doing sprints with a tiny parachute attached to my back like in a Gatorade ad, but I feel like I’m close. After three minutes I’m exhausted. I have to stop short and slip below the surface. I let go of the noodles and breathe out so I can quickly sink to the bottom; which means I’m free, away from their clutches. And if I can stay under just a bit longer, I won’t hear them scream that they want to go-

“AGAIN! DAD! CAN WE GO AGAIN?! DAD!”

“Ok, just give me a second.”

“DAD! AGAIN! DAD!”

“In a second.”

“BUT WE WANT TO GO AGAIN! DAD!”

“GUYS!!!”

“It’s so much fun, though. Please?”

“Fine.”

On a vacation that’s longer than a long weekend, we always end up at the grocery — despite best-laid plans and lists with photos texted to my parents. So we’re at a Trader Joes (with a fairly normal parking lot). Judah has requested chocolate milk. No prob. Pam pulls down the 1/2 gallon, but Judah wants the pint. That is, he ‘really’ wants the pint. He’s very very very ‘focused’ on the lesser size.

‘Meltdown in the dairy aisle. Glen, we have a meltdown in the dairy aisle.’

Pam: This isn’t a good value, Judah. There won’t be any left for tomorrow.

It’s the end of the day and Judah’s packed in a lot since rising early this morning. The button used to determine cost efficiency and how it relates to his lifestyle won’t be on his calculator. Also, Pam and I are nearing the end of our processing power as well. We get the small one.

Fast forward to the next morning. I’m getting Judah some breakfast…

Judah: Can I have chocolate milk, Dad?

Ah, a teachable moment.

Steve: No, you can’t. Do you know why?

Judah:

Steve: Because remember yesterday when Mommy wanted to get the big milk, but you wanted to get the small milk and you were so upset? Do you remember that?

Judah: I’m sorry, Dad.

Steve: Well, you should have listened to Mommy. Because now there’s no more chocolate milk. You have to be a good listener, Judah. You have to always try to be your best self. Ok?

Beat.

Judah: Can I have some juice?

Beat.

Steve: Well played, bud.

Not sure how it is for other families, but we spend a lot of time discussing meals during meals. For example, the other day at breakfast we were talking about lunch…

Simma (my mom): Oh, there’s a poke (pronounced: po-kay) place you should try.

Pam: What’s it called?

Simma: House of Poke, I think.

Steve: Hmmm, maybe we can bring the kids.

Pam: I don’t think they’ll like it.

Steve: They have fries, right?

Pam: (Eye-roll)

Simma: No, it’s just poke. Everything goes in bowls.

Steve: What’s this place called again? The hoke (pronounced: ho-kay) what?

Simma: No, it’s-

Steve: Because I wonder if you can simply put your bowl in… and then… simply take your bowl out.

Simma: What?

Pam:

Steve: I know you wouldn’t want to… shake it about.

Simma: Shake?

Pam:

Steve: I guess you could… turn yourself around.

Simma: I don’t understand, do you understand?

Pam: I do, actually. He can’t help himself.

Steve: Because… once you do this, I mean, well, that’s what it’s all about. Right?

Pam: (Eye-roll)

Simma: Oh my god. (Eye-roll)

Pam: You had to do the whole thing?

Steve: I did. I absolutely did.

Simma: He didn’t get this from me. Or his father. I don’t know what happened.

Turns out poke is okay. It’s like if sushi and salad got together in a bowl and you could hide everything under a bunch of sauces and toppings — like the opposite of an ice cream sundae, but in a healthful savory way. Seriously, I liked it. The kids not so much. They had mac-n-cheese.

There’s a road here called Magnesia Falls Dr. I don’t know where it leads, but we always pass it whenever we get to Bob Hope. It comes right before/after. Like right now…

Pam: I see that sign and I always think it’s Milk of Magnesia Falls.

Steve: That’s better than me because I always forget.

Pam: What do you mean?

Steve: I always think it’s Amnesia Falls.

Pam:

Steve: Did you hear me?

Pam:

Steve: I said Amnes-

Pam: I heard you.

Magnesia Falls Drive, now far in the rearview mirror, we turn off HWY 111, pull behind Target, and park.

“Are we going up the mountain, Dad?”

“Yup,” I say. “Everyone out.”

The path up the hill behind the Target is called the Bump and Grind Trail. Maybe because it’s somewhat rocky and crowded? Dunno. We often have to stand down and let others pass. But even with the rocky terrain, it doesn’t seem too dangerous. Well, it’s dangerous like a bathtub. It COULD kill you, but if you watch your step it probably won’t. I don’t know what the grade is. Do they measure hikes in grades? I have no idea. I don’t know from trails. I am NOT a hiker — by any stretch. Also, from what I understand, the Bump and Grind is a loop. But we’ve never made the loop. Our ‘hike’ is roughly a zigzag walk up, and a then zigzag walk down. It takes us about 45 minutes. It’s nice because if someone asks what we did that morning, we can say, “Oh, y’know, we went hiking.” Like we’re outdoorsy, and rugged.

Judah wants to be the line leader. He gets this from school. I think it must be a thing.

“Nola,” shouts Judah. “You have to get behind. Nola!”

Apparently being a line leader is a thing for Nola as well. Eventually, we form two lines; a girl’s line and a boy’s line. Pam and Nola form the girl’s line. Judah and I fill out the other one, but ours is more of a pairing. I take the outside and give Judah the inside.

Judah: Why are you on the edge, Dad?

Steve: I don’t want you to fall, bud. I think it’s safer on the inside.

Judah: What happens if you fall?

Steve: I’m not going to fall, bud.

Judah: But what would happen?

Steve: I’d get hurt.

Judah: Would I get hurt?

Steve: If you fell, bud, yeah, you’d probably get hurt.

Judah considers this for a moment, compartmentalizes it, and then continues up the trail.

Judah: Where are we going, Dad?

Steve: To the top, bud. So we can see the view.

Judah: What’s the view?

Steve: Everything we can see below us.

I stop and point to where we’ve just been. Judah looks at the cars parked on the street and the roof of Target, and then back at me. He’s unimpressed so we press on. As we get to each zig and zag, I do a little bit of choreography so that I remain on the outside. Each turn marks another advance up the trail. These inclines don’t go unnoticed. It’s only a matter of time until-

Judah: When are we going to rest?

Steve: Soon. It’s just a little further to the top.

Judah: How about over there?

Judah points to a zig up ahead. (Or maybe it’s a zag.) There’s a little area off to the side with some wide flat rocks.

Steve: Sure.

And that’s when Judah channels Siri…

Judah: The restination is on your left.

I want to point out again that Judah is 5, and the youngest of his kindergarten class. Advanced wordplay should not be in his wheelhouse. However, he is my son and before I was ever a dad I was a dad — puns are my thing. Sure, I know they are humor’s low hung fruit, but I can sit in the shade of that tree ALL DAY. It is my easy-to-reach-all-you-can-eat dad joke buffet.

Steve: What? What did you say?

Because I am suddenly caught up in a wellspring of surprise and pride. (Surpride?) Did he just come up with a thing I wish was already in my repertoire?

Judah: The restination is on your left.

Yes, yes he did!

Steve: Judah, that is so awesome! That is really funny, bud!

Judah: Is it really funny, Dad?

Steve: It is, bud. It is SO funny.

Judah: How come you’re not laughing?

That’s the thing about puns, though, isn’t it? It’s more of an inward journey that a laugh out loud adventure.

Steve: I am, bud. I am.

When we all get to the ‘summit’, we stop and survey the view. It’s nice. It’s not ‘top of the world’ nice — the air is not thin here — but we can see most of the valley. It’s like a big bowl with a criss-cross of streets, buildings, palm trees, and vast plots of desert terrain.

Judah: Can we go now?

I look at Pam and Nola who are also both staring out at the bowl. I’m reminded somewhat of that scene from National Lampoon’s Vacation with Chevy Chase at the Grand Canyon.

Pam and Nola turn to look at me.

Steve: Well, is that it? Is everyone ready to-

Pam, Nola, and Judah: Yes!

Ok, so maybe we’re more indoorsy and refined. Still, we hiked.

The day before we left, Nola opened a nail salon on the back patio. She created a menu and everything. I don’t remember all the prices and services. But I know she had a special on manicures, which I think typically include a hand massage, nail shaping, and a working of the cuticles. Nola’s manicure focused on a collection of polishes my mom had laying around.

“What color do you want, Dad?”

“Um, I don’t know. Uh, how about-”

“All of them?”

“Sure.”

An angry rainbow of nail polish on a 50-year-old man either looks punk rock, or totally dad. I like to think I’m somewhere in the middle, but I probably lean dad. I’m fine with that. I don’t care one way or another — which probably makes it more punk. But with my daughter in tow, people know.

We had just pulled in the rental return area. I was doing a last minute check of the car to make sure we had everything; wires, toys, books. My hand was resting on the roof.

Rental Car Agent: Oh, I love your nail polish.

Steve: Thanks.

Rental Car Agent (smiling and looking at Nola): Did you do this?

Steve: No! No! I did it! It’s pretty, right? It’s pretty!

Rental Car Agent:

Nola: Da-AD!

To bring it full circle, a week and a half before we left for Spring Break, Judah had developed a stutter. “Dad, can you can you can you can you can you can you do the timer when I run?” Yeah, it was the kind of thing that made me think of Churchill and King George VI. Pam and I panicked to ourselves, but outwardly we smiled and told Judah to just slow it down. His teachers and therapists recommended that approach as well. They also said a vacation might be a good thing for him, that his brain has been processing so much that maybe it was just a glitch.

Glitch?

Long story less complicated, maybe it was a glitch. As that week and a half dovetailed into packing for our trip, the stuttering seemed to lessen. And by the time we landed in Palm Springs, it was practically non-existent. My parents, whom we had warned before we left, looked at Pam and I like we’d made it up.

“He seems fine to us.”

And in truth, he seemed fine to us as well, although any kind of excited stammer caused all sorts of internal bells and whistles to sound. But the vacation had done him well. It had done us all well. Any mountains in our path or in our minds, or those just behind the Target on Hwy 111, were only hills — easy to get up and down.

Full disclosure: We also went to Boomers (arcade) a couple times.

Fuller disclosure: I’m not saying the Children’s Discovery Center on Gerald Ford is played out, but we did NOT make it there this time.

Fullest disclosure: Perhaps not unrelated, Nola and Judah got lots of iPad time.

* Sorry not sorry.