Time Travels

Today is the final day of our museum tour in L.A. and I’m super excited to see what the kids think about the La Brea Tar Pits. It’s amazing that such a thing could exist in the Miracle Mile district. As we began our tour, we learned how constant maintenance is needed to ensure structural integrity of not only the museum but also the surrounding areas. “It’s like stepping back in time, to see what was at this very spot, thousands of years ago,” I said hoping to point them toward a career in the sciences.

“You mean it’s a time machine?!” my daughter asked excitedly, jumping up and down.

“You can’t travel through time!” said my oldest son. My daughter dropped her head, disillusioned.

“Einstein might disagree with you!” retorted my husband, hoping to pick the mood back up.

“I know Mr. Einstein!” proclaimed my daughter, surprisingly.

I was happy to hear that. “From school?” I asked.

“No,” she responded, “from Grandma.”

She looked at my younger son and asked, “You know how Grandma’s always saying, ‘he’s no Einstein’,” as he nodded in agreement. “Well, we finally found him in Save Mart!” she said throwing her hands out exuberantly. “We wouldn’t have even seen him, except he knocked down the stack of green beans and Grandma said, ‘Say hello to Mr. Einstein,’ so I did!” she said with a sweet smile. Horrified, I turned my attention back to the fossil displays.

My boys, taking my lead, immediately sought out the meat eaters. “I’ll never figure out how they can tell diet preference from a mere skeletal display,” I commented to my husband.

“It’s likely the teeth,” he said, humored that I could be so detached from nature.

“Look,” I pointed out to my daughter, “a North American camel.”

“Probably left over from the wise men,” she said matter-of-factly.

“What!” said my oldest son sarcastically, “all the way from Bethlehem? What do you think they did, swim across the Atlantic?”

I saw the couple next to us glance over and was secretly grateful that at least he was familiar with the Earth’s larger bodies of water.

My little one pushed her brother away fiercely, as I gently reminded her to use her words.

“Jerk!” she screamed. My eyes grew wide, as this echoed through the observation pit. She dropped her head to her chest, “It was Mommy’s idea.” My husband gave our oldest a look that put an end to the torture. He then pointed us toward the exit and we all filed out to the grounds exhibits.

We stopped by the Lake Pit where we could see the bubbling tar, which displayed a life-size mastodon precariously trapped while its herd looked on.

“We know what lived here thousands of years ago,” my husband explained, “because the animals got trapped in the tar, which preserved them.”

“That is so sad,” my daughter said. “Why didn’t someone help it?”

“Because it’s food for the saber tooth cats,” said my younger son pointing matter-of-factly to the placard.

With that she began to cry, which sent us to the vegetation garden.

“I don’t want to see a bunch of carrots!” complained my younger son. “I want to see all the things that got stuck in the tar like the dinosaurs got stuck in the quicksand and sunk to the Middle East.”

“I think he’s referring to the natural oil reserves found in that part of the world,” reasoned my husband, who was ignored by all onlookers for the much more interesting version of the story my son was offering.

“The sand sucks them down, ‘cause it’s quicksand.” My son shook his head exasperated to have to explain the obvious. “Why do you think everyone there flies around on magic carpets?” He rolled his eyes, “And when we have an earthquake,” he continued, “it’s them trying to get out from underground.”

“Maybe you should set them straight,” I suggested to my husband.

“There’s so much wrong with this monologue, I’m not sure where to start. But he is very convincing. Let’s get out of here before he’s mistaken for a docent and draws an even larger crowd.”

Once back in the comfort of our own home, I suddenly realized that my husband had dug up the old LPs, as music came blaring from the living room. Exhausted from our venture, I went to investigate the chaos. I found my husband pulling my two youngest around the floor on the kitchen rug to Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride”. Who says you can’t travel through time.

“What are you three doing?” I asked smiling.

“Daddy says we are sweeping the floor for you,” said my youngest cheerfully.

I gave my husband a little shove. “Words,” he reminded me.

“Jerk,” I obliged him.