The spawnage have returned to Capistrano, the deafening silence has been extinguished, and balance has been restored to our crabby little home. I'd tell you all about their trip, but I'd rather let Mr. Z's trip log do the talking:
Day 2 (visual)
It stops after Day 3, for some reason. Either he got tired of writing, or my parents snatched his notes away so as not to reveal to us the systematic destruction of every parenting rule and regulation we've worked so hard for the last eight years to establish. I'm sure it went something like, "Hey Mr. Z... just hand us those notes and you can have that frosted Pop-Tart that's sitting on top of that Happy Meal that's spread out in front of the TV that's showing an endless loop of violent PG-13 movies that you can watch until many hours past your very reasonable bedtime."
But turning my kids into sleep-deprived diabetics is a small price to pay for taking them off our hands for five days, so I sure as shit ain't complaining.