“So let me get this straight.” Grumps seemed to be booting up a little slowly this morning. “You are driving from Thousand Oaks to Oxnard to get on the train, which you’ll take to Simi Valley.”

“Yes,” I replied. “The Pacific Surfliner!”

I was on a roll or so I thought. I had already slugged down my hormones, remembered the gingko along with a handful of old-broad preservatives and tortured my bod with yoga poses for old poops. Limber as a piece of heat-tempered steel. Ready to rock.

Grumps lumbered on. “And then, in Simi, you’re turning right around to get back on the train to Oxnard?”

“Yes!” My dear husband looked somewhat confused by my plan. So I explained, “We’re riding the Coast Starlight back, from Simi to Oxnard!” I guess he thought I was crazy, but that’s nothing new.

“And then,” the kind soul continued, “you arrive at the Oxnard train station, disembark and drive home?”

Indeed. I was so proud of my plan. “Yes, in time for Gavin to take his nap.” A morning of riding the rails.

I thought it was an absolutely marvelous idea for my Friday with the dumplings, who love love love trains more than cupcakes with sprinkles or earthworms with dirt clods. It’s hard to believe, but boats, planes and other devices are second-rate in their toddler eyes. Anything but a train is rated as the chopped liver of transportation devices. It’s all about trains, don’t ya know?

Sure, we could hop on the train to Santa Barbara or San Diego, but at this moment it won’t fit on my dance card. If I don’t get the 2-year-old home for his nap, it could get ugly. Besides, you can’t grow thighs like his without catching plenty of zzzzzzs.

So, for a quick outing, I thought I’d take the chunky 2year-old and the analytical 4year-old on a real Amtrak train, complete with the “All aboard,” the nosey conductor, the big rush to hop on and huge, enormous cars that charge down the track terrifying every soul standing on the platform and make even a tanker like me feel—well— miniscule. Not an easy task.

“Yaya, it’s scaaaarrrry,” shouted Hudson, the analytical 4year-old, as we were dashing to find our place on the train.

“Don’t worry, Huddy,” I screamed. “Wait till we get on the train. I promise it won’t be scary. Hold Yaya’s hand!”

I held the chunky 2-year-old in my arms. He was screaming, “Fi-Fi! Fi-Fi!”—his word for, you guessed it, train. Don’t know where it comes from, but his first words were “Yaya,” so who am I to question his vocabulary.

Moving like an old pack mule, I managed to heave our three sorry bods on the train. You know, becoming a grandmother should entitle you to an extra set of biceps, a new spine replete with souped-up muscles, lungs the size Lake Superior and feet like Zola Budd. Go, Zola.

Yaya I’m not so sure about. There are no sprinters named Yaya.

By the time we had charged up the stairs and gotten ourselves situated, I remembered we’d only be sitting for about 30 minutes before we’d have to jump off this thing and turn around. It was my dumb idea.

“Yaya, look at all the freight cars.” Hudson’s eyes never left the window.

Gavin was looking for the raisins in my backpack.

“Yaya, look at the fields.” Gavin was hunting for the crackers in my backpack.

“Yaya, look at the hills.”

Gavin was digging for grapes in my backpack.

“Yaya, I see the freeway we rode this morning.”

Gavin couldn’t find anymore food.

“Yaya, it’s Simi Valley! Time to get off the train!”

Oh yeah, Yaya, it’s Simi Valley. How did that happen so fast? Brace yourself, Grandma, you need to get this group off this train.

“Gavin, knock off the raisins. Hudson, hold Yaya’s hand.”

And who was there to greet us but—Grumps!

In the heat of the day, we ambled along the platform walkway, impatiently waiting for the Coast Starlight to arrive, hanging with Grumps under the shelters in Simi. But only for a moment. Then, on your marks, get set, go! Get this group in gear and load ’em on the Coast Starlight back to Oxnard. Run!

“Yaya, it’s scaaarrry!” cried Hudson.

“Come on, Hud!”

At last, we had found our seats and chugged our way back to Oxnard.

“Yaya,” Hudson quietly whispered to me. “I love trains. And I love you.”

It was worth it. You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.