When we last checked in with our merry band of road trippers, all was well. Joe was looking forward to a fantastic breakfast at Matthew's Cafeteria, and not a single child had vomited, peed, or thrown an errant shoe out the minivan. Everything had gone perfectly.
Which is why I knew catastrophe was imminent.
We arranged a 6 am wake-up call with the Holiday Inn and all five of us were up and out by 7:00 am. Joe practically skipped out the door in anticipation of his carefully-crafted detour through Tucker, Georgia. And for anyone who knows my husband, he is not exactly known as a "skipper."
We slowly pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and Joe immediately sensed something was wrong. Not one single car could be found. We were completely alone.
And Matthew's Cafeteria was closed on the weekend.
Joe's rant could be heard across several states, and the boys learned that there were in fact a few curse words my husband saves for the most special of occasions.
Not being one to let a vacation disaster go undocumented, I quickly captured my husband's priceless look of complete aggravation and homicidal rage with my trusty camera:
So I'll leave you with this image and the knowledge that things only got worse from this point on.
Because a good vacation is hardly worth a single paragraph.
A disastrous vacation, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.