Well, we did better than I expected this morning. I believe we were officially underway by 8:45 a.m.

By 10:45 a.m., we were actually walking into Jax Brewery as our official first pit stop of the day. Of course, the 3-year-old did not want to use the “family friendly” restroom on the first floor. She climbed out of her stroller and darted up a flight of stairs, following the rest of our group to the restrooms on the second floor.

Since the 3-year-old is my responsibility, no one else in our group is hanging around to see if I need any assistance, and so my plight goes unnoticed. Except by passing tourists, who can't be helpful and perhaps attempt to impede the progress of my little runaway. However they can be “helpful” by saying smart-ass things like “ha-ha I remember those days” or “I wish I had that kind of energy.” Yeah, shut the fuck up and get out of my way.

I'm left dragging a stroller up a flight of stairs while screaming after her to slow down. The first of many visions of a pedophile making off with my little one flashes through my head. I manage to catch up to her just as she is heading into the men's restroom. She screams and kicks as I drag her into the women's restroom. Once we are safely cramped into our little stall, she proceeds to give the entire restroom a play-by-play of what is happening. It occurs to me that closing and locking the door is a luxury I really shouldn't try to engage in. Privacy is a thing of the past.

After the potty stop, we continue our trek down Decatur. We don't make it too far before we pass a toy shop. Actually, that isn't quite accurate because we don't actually pass the toy store. I tried to scoot on by but the other adults think it would be a grand idea to go inside and have a look around. I tell the husband he is on 3-year-old patrol. “Fine” is the response I get. We aren't even in the store five minutes when I look around to see that he, in fact, is not on toddler patrol. She is a good twenty feet away from him digging through some over priced pieces of plastic that look highly breakable. I fuss as him, only to be put in my place by him and my mother in law. What can I do? I'm out-numbered. The only thing to do now is hope the toy store bill doesn't reach triple digits. Thank-goodness I can find peace and happiness in my 9-year-old. No, actually that is not true either. He has found his Mecca, he's in a toy store with grandparents--utopia. I get in trouble because I discourage him from making his grandmother pay $8.99 for a pack of plastic bugs he could by at Wal-mart for $1.99. He will be pissed at me for the rest of the day.

Amazingly, we make it out of the toy without making a purchase. However, I am now the official black sheep of the family. I probably was before, it's just now it is painfully obvious. The walk down Decatur continues. We now take our little adventure to the French market. The walking room is sparse to non-existent. Of course, since I am navigating a stroller, I am given the respect of a leper. I am less than human, to be disdained, hated, and ridiculed. It doesn't help that the 3-year-old wants to be in the stroller…out of the stroller…in the stroller…out of the stroller…pushing the stroller…in the stroller…out of the stroller…

Once our journey through flea-market hell is complete, it's time to grab some lunch. We stop in at Fiorella's Cafe. Thankfully it is uneventful. (And the fried chicken is to die for.)

With full-tummies, we head over to Ripley's Believe-It or Not. Overpriced. An interesting diversion though.

Now, we walk over to the D-Day museum. We head to the museum via the River Walk. There will be more toy stores to dodge, but the air-conditioned walk will make it worth it.

We stop at a gelato shop. I get dolce latte. The nuts in it taste old, but otherwise it's a cold, tasty treat. The 3-year-old gets chocolate. She and I are both wearing white tops. She makes it through the whole “eating melted, chocolate ice-cream” process and only manages to get one little drop on her sleeve. Oh, and it is smeared all over the table. I don't have any on me, yet. I don't know how I did this, but as I'm wiping up a puddle of ice cream off the table, I splash it onto my shirt. I get to spend the rest of the day with chocolate splash marks on my shirt. I'm now a black sheep, leper in a nasty white shirt.

After some minor navigational errors, and an expected opportunity to check in at our hotel, we finally make it to the D-Day museum. Don't ever go to this museum with a 3-year-old. It is a remarkable museum. But when you're only three, you really can't move through it with the solemn countenance that it really deserves. I'll leave it at that…

After the museum, we headed back to the hotel. We ate at Mulate's, both kids behaved quite well considering we were on the move the entire day. I drank two blackened voodoos. The trials of the day melted away.