We walk the line

CHICAGO — CLEANING UP a 5-year-old is a cinch. First scrape him with a dull blade to remove the layers of gum, asphalt, wet paint, shellac, bunny poo, perspiration, dog hair, pond scum, aphids and frog spit from his skin. Next, sponge him with lemon juice and club soda. Blot up excess moisture. Repeat. After two or three rounds of this, you should begin to see his skin again.

We're at Grandma's house for a few days, and the little guy is like a totem of summer substances. One evening, I found a Canada goose in his ear.

His mother and siblings are not along, so it is left to me to wash him each night, though I confess there are some evenings when I just dunk him in my sister's pool for an hour or two. The pool pump and filter immediately begin to smoke, but I cover that up by lighting a big smelly cigar. Desperate dads call for desperate measures.

Not certain why Posh didn't want to come, thanks for asking. She mumbled something about mental anguish and post-traumatic vacation disorder.

"But we haven't even left yet," I argued.

"From last year," Posh explained.

I understand. These days, vacations are not for wimps. The little guy and I walk into LAX, needing to check something at the American Airlines ticket counter before proceeding -- it's a long story about a ticket voucher that I still don't quite understand.

Now, I'm too young to have experienced Ellis Island, but I have little doubt that American Airlines has created a faithful replica at LAX. When I ask a guy in a blazer, he says that the line to the ticket counter is way over there somewhere with "about 500 people in it so be careful not to miss your flight."

"Thanks," I say.

So we make our way to the ticket counter. In spots, LAX is like an overcrowded prison. Lines crisscross, lines tangle into tight little fists. There have been several unintended pregnancies in lines at LAX. I'm pretty sure that's where two of our four kids were conceived.

When we get to what looks like the ticket counter line, there are only about 50 other customers in front of us. Whew. Of course, we soon discover that the line is not moving. I fear, for a moment, that the ticket agents are wax museum figures, for this is how badly the line is not moving. To reduce the tension, the little guy begins to sing.

"Bells on Bobtail ring, making spirits bright . . . "