Traveling, on toddler time

THE HARVEST IS in. The cows are fed. Over the freeway and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go ...

“You ready?” I ask the toddler.

“For what?” he says.

“For our trip,” I say.

“Sure,” he says, with an aviator’s stoic nod.

Little Lindy and I are about to board a plane at LAX, the happiest place on Earth. Not just any plane either. It’s a plane that will take us to his grandmother’s house near Chicago, where we go once a year to make sure she’s behaving herself and not dressing too provocatively, that sort of thing. You know how grandmothers are these days. Grannies Gone Wild. We hope it’s just a phase.

“Got your driver’s license?” I ask the toddler.

“Huh?”

“Your driver’s license,” I say.

Hard to believe, but the toddler rarely travels. Too busy for it, really. Driving his mother crazy takes up most of his time. When he’s done with that, he trashes the house, then turns on his older siblings and drives them batty. At 3, he is like a Pied Piper of mirth and mayhem.

“STOP THROWING THINGS AT ME!” his sister screams.

“He just wants to play catch,” I explain.

“With croutons, Dad?” she asks. “WITH GARLIC CROUTONS?”

So off we go to his grandmother’s house, a less judgmental place, where they are glad to see a little hedonist like him, even if he flings a garlic crouton or two at the dinner table. What the heck, you’re only 3 once. Live a little.

“Listen, I want you to relax,” I tell him.

“OK, Daddy,” he says.

“I’m serious,” I say. “Have some fun for a change.”

“OK, Dad.”

This is a big trip for him, an adventure on a grand scale. For the plane trip, he stuffs his tiny backpack with books and toys, as if provisioning the Mayflower. He puts on his newest pair of jeans and a nice sweater backward. His mother combs his hair. By the time she is done, the toddler looks like one of those well-scrubbed young twits who used to deliver fliers for Ross Perot.

“He really wanted to wear his pirate costume,” his mother explains.

“Me too,” I say.

“But he’s been wearing it for weeks,” she says.

“Me too!”

I guess it’s hard enough to get through airport security these days without dressing like pirates. I can just hear the TSA guy now. “Sir, is that a parrot on your shoulder? Are those swords real?”

Of course they are. But we decide against our pirate outfits, and decide to dress pretty much like everybody else, which is kind of scary too when you think about it.

And for days ahead of the flight, the toddler practices sitting quietly on the plane, a dress rehearsal that goes well, though not perfectly. Basically, he’s good for about 30 seconds of sitting quietly in a chair, exchanging sideways glances and sly grins, before jumping to his feet and pronouncing the test run an unqualified success.

“All done!” he says, throwing both arms in the air.

“No, you’re not,” I tell him.

“Done, Daddy,” he insists.

“You’ve got to sit,” I tell him. “It’s a new FAA requirement.”

“Me sit,” he says.

“Good idea,” I say.

We are excited about this trip back to the heartland. After all, we’re Central Time Zone kinds of guys. We like Da Bears and hot dogs with everything. We like that Letterman comes on at a decent hour (10:30) and that the NFL games start at noon.

We like big rolling front lawns mowed in chevron patterns, by dads in windbreakers and old L.L. Bean boots.

We like the way the north breeze comes straight out of Winnipeg and how people eat joyously, without stopping to count every bleepin’ gram of fat.

We like that people haven’t given up entirely on American cars and the way neighbors scurry to prep their houses for the coming winter. We like the way chili simmers on the stove on blustery Saturday afternoons.

We like Chicago’s great commuter trains and the squadrons of Canada geese overhead -- just everywhere, really. We like the ice, like cellophane, around the edges of a prairie pond.

Sandberg, Hemingway, Bozo the Clown, all great Americans, all men who helped to define Chicago. Daley, Ditka, Bill Murray. Outside of Springfield, Chicago may be one of the best towns Illinois has to offer.

So hide the croutons, Grandma. Put the Pabst on ice. The Blues Brothers are heading for O’Hare.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com or at myspace.com/chriserskine.