It rains, she pores over the options

Anticipation is one of my favorite drugs, especially when it comes to travel. Left to my own devices and given a substantial trust fund, I would spend most of my time planning, and then taking, trips.

I used to joke that I had children so I could get on the plane first. To my great irritation many airlines have nixed that policy, but at least the kids give me an excuse to plan trips months in advance. Red-eye flights are no longer an option, and neither is waiting until we arrive to find a place to sleep, so there is a reason -- beyond my own obsessive-compulsive personality -- to be cruising websites and buying guidebooks in November for a summer trip abroad.

I like to talk about our travel with the kids far in advance because I want them to share my excitement and feel they are part of the process. We read books about our destinations, look at pictures and maps, remember other trips we have taken. We talk about what we’re going to do, and even more important, how we’re going to do it. As in, “When we fly on an airplane, what are five things we should not do?” and “Let’s practice how we’re going to sit in a restaurant without making too much noise.” I have no idea whether this helps, but it makes me feel like a responsible parent, and that’s a rare and beautiful sensation.

But the trouble with anticipation is that it occasionally drags along its evil twin, disappointment. Even the best-planned trips get canceled, which explains the necessity of the deposit. When two consenting adults cancel a trip, they can usually find solace in a good sulk and an expensive dinner out. When the same adults cancel a trip that includes children, well, I hope you kept your notes from the Treaty of Versailles, because you’re going to need them.

We recently canceled a camping trip because it was raining. No, wait, not raining, hailing. For weeks we had planned to use a three-day school holiday to join my son’s Cub Scout den for our first scouting adventure, a canoe trip in Needles. (Don’t ask me; I didn’t plan it.) When the heavens opened and the rain came forth, we trusted in fate and packed the cooler and the car, shook out the rain ponchos and got extra seam sealer. But as the rain continued and our collective persistent coughs deepened, doubt set in. My experience with camping in the rain is that once you get wet, you stay wet, and the prospect of four days of perpetually wet jeans, damp sleeping bags and my tent-bound children “accidentally” punching each other every 35 seconds began to wear on me. Just as we were about to pull the car out of the garage, the rain turned to hail. My husband took it as a sign from God that we should give up, and I could not muster my typical, and often annoying, “Oh, come on; it’ll be an adventure” attitude. “Great,” I said instead, and began unpacking the car.

Then, of course, we had to explain this to our children -- our Southern California children who are unused to the concept of inclement weather and its abilities to interfere with their plans.

It is very odd for an East Coast native to raise little Angelenos. In Southern California, the boundary between shelter and sky is blurrier than in other parts of the country. Here, windows and doors can stay open most months of the year; the beach is L.A.’s front yard, the mountains the back; Little League baseball ends in November and begins in February. Just as my children will never experience the euphoria induced by the words, “School’s closed on account of snow,” neither do they grasp the fact that, in most states, winter camping is the purview of Outward Bound graduates, not Cub Scouts.

This winter has proved especially trying for them, what with the rain canceling baseball practice and moving a friend’s outdoor birthday party indoors.

“It is never going to stop raining,” my daughter complained after the third wet day, and when I explained that I was just talking to a friend in the East who had been snowed in for a week, she smiled and said, with the wisdom of one 6-inch snowfall witnessed during a Thanksgiving trip to Mammoth, “Yeah, but snow is fun.”

So when we explained that we were not going camping because we were worried the rain would just get worse, there was a reaction of general denial. “It’s not raining that hard,” they cried, although we could barely hear them over what sounded like a herd of Clydesdales dancing on our roof. (To my children’s credit, they were right; while L.A. and most of Southern California got drenched, Needles defied all website weather reports and remained an odd island of occasional sun. We’re looking into the possibility of telepathy.)

We knew we would have to offer them a substitute plan, something fun that would not cost too much money because we’d already lost a bundle on the camping trip. After hours of poring through the Internet and books, here’s what we discovered: Except for the Museum of Natural History, the Science Center and Chuck E. Cheese (otherwise known as Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here), there’s not a whole lot going on beneath a roof for small children. Los Angeles is, of course, the only city in which a major art museum (the Getty) is as much about the outdoors as in, and even the fabulous new Kidspace in Pasadena, which we didn’t dare consider because of the crowd factor, is as much garden as museum.

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The magic bullet

The good news about Southern California children is that they can, for a short period of time anyway, be lulled into believing rain itself is a destination. Suiting up in slickers and boots for a trek through the neighborhood is as unusual and briefly enchanting as any form of dress-up, and who doesn’t like stomping in raging gutters and pretending to be Gene Kelly? Alas, that is good for only an hour, maybe two, and then those trip-expectant faces are turned back toward you.

I searched the Internet for a hotel with an indoor pool, thinking we could chance a trip to Santa Barbara or San Diego (maybe the sun would reappear long enough for a stroll) if we had a backup diversion, but the only indoor pool I could find was at our YMCA. I don’t even want to discuss the state of family-oriented films; apparently there is a law that PG-rated movies can be released only on odd Saturdays that fall during a full moon.

Every winter I am reminded that there should be a special Rainy Weekend Workshop for L.A. parents. I’m sure some mothers take it in stride, but I don’t have a pipe cleaner or a Popsicle stick to my name, and though I do collect egg cartons for just such an emergency, I have no idea what to do with an egg carton except put eggs in it. And besides, we were dealing with not only rain fever but cool-four-day-trip-canceled-by-rain fever.

So we took them to Disneyland. What can I say? It is the parental ace in the hole; no kid is going to feel disappointed if you say you’re taking him or her to Disneyland. Even in the rain. Especially in the rain. The rain is the only thing that made it possible. Under ordinary circumstances, I will go to the park only on a Wednesday in early December or January (typically the slowest day in the slowest time of the year). I would certainly not venture there on a holiday weekend.

But I figured the rain would keep the locals away, and I figured right. We packed up our slickers, our umbrellas, a change of clothes and shoes for the kids and headed south. Even the freeways were empty. We got there 10 minutes after the park opened, and I’m telling you we walked onto Peter Pan, the Matterhorn and even Dumbo. (As any parent of small children knows, Dumbo always has the most demoralizing lines in the park, and you can’t talk a small child out of Dumbo.)

The rain closed a few of the rides at various points during the day -- we never got on the Teacups -- but for a while the weather was so beautiful I feared my nefarious plan would backfire. Fortunately another front blew in, and soon Disneyland ponchos crowded the park as folks beat their way to the exit, and we went on Indiana Jones one more time. (Helpful hint: Take a dish towel or an extra slicker so you don’t have to sit on a wet seat, because once you get wet, you stay wet. Even in Disneyland.)

To make the trip even more special, we went with another family. The parents did not tell their children where they were going until they got there. Seeing the almost baffled joy on the girls’ faces as we entered the park made me wonder if maybe, at least once in a while, anticipation isn’t overrated.

There is something to be said for a really good rainy day surprise.