Three Car Seats; Will Travel

I figured I could do it. No problem. I’m a strong woman from pioneer stock. I have an ancestor who walked to the West while eight months pregnant. Surely I could make an 800-mile trip from Seattle to rural Nevada to visit my parents in an air-conditioned minivan. With my three children. Alone.

We left home in high spirits. We were armed with good driving music, a menagerie of stuffed animals and action figures and the indispensable car tv/vcr. As we pulled into our first gas station, a pattern emerged. Six-year old Braeden said he needed to go to the bathroom. Four-year old Emma declared adamantly that she did not. I told her to go anyway and then she couldn’t find one of her sandals. Seven-month old Mark, awakened from his motion-induced reverie, started to fuss, then wail.

Back on the road I found myself in the vicious cycle of trying to keep my children, accustomed to the mild moist weather of the Pacific northwest, hydrated as we drove across the desert and dealing with the bathroom breaks. And they were often. And I know what every mother knows. When they say it’s an emergency, it is.

As the minutes ticked by faster than the miles I also learned two important truths. Lesson number one: Fast food is worth its weight in gold. I had resolved to be the Good Mother. We weren’t going to fill up on junk food while we drove. I had a carefully packed cooler of sandwiches (made with wheat bread no less), string cheese, grapes and yes, chocolate pudding (I have a soul after all). I pulled off the freeway in sunny Prosser, Washington at a grassy rest area. I pictured the idyllic scene of a leisurely family picnic. What looked sunny and pleasant from my air-conditioned vantage point was really a blistering 104 degrees and the scrubby tree we cowered under for shade didn’t help much. The jar of baby food that I was feeding to Mark ended up largely on my leg, which I was using to corral him while I tried to feed him. The kids actually begged me to get back into the van. Dinnertime found us in Ontario, Oregon where it was 110 degrees. We found refuge in a fast food restaurant, scooping up French fries dipped in dangerous amounts of ketchup and soaking up the air conditioning. For the rest of the trip I abandoned all pretense of being the Good Mother and sought kids’ meal toys—which are a lifesaving new distraction as long as each child’s is EXACTLY the same—and a grimy high chair to keep the pureed peaches more in Mark’s mouth and less on me.

Lesson number two: Wear pants with an elasticized waist. Unwilling to put him on the questionable floors of public restrooms, I had to tuck a very squirmy Mark under my arm to button and unbutton my jeans. Enough said; lesson learned.

When we finally got to my parents’ house, the quiet setting and stillness soothed my soul. I told my dad I was never happier to be anywhere and I told Adam on the phone that I was never coming back. If he wanted me, he’d have to come and get me. I guess like giving birth, you forget the pain though because after a few days of not being in the van it didn’t seem so bad. By the time our week’s visit was over, I had mustered enough courage for the drive home.

Our return journey taught its own lessons. I learned that no amount of scolding and muttering under my breath will change the fact that Braeden can’t open the van door from inside if the child lock has been accidentally activated. Luckily Braeden is very forgiving. Also, even if you think you’re cleverly taking a shortcut, if the road is unfamiliar and you’re not sure of the speed limit, you just might get a ticket from one of Oregon’s finest. It didn’t help that I was sorely distracted by Mark, who’d had it and was screaming and by Braeden and Emma who had to yell at each other to be heard over the racket Mark was making. The police officer that pulled me over had little sympathy for my plight. Chuckling, he looked into the backseat at Mark. “Well someone’s not happy,” he said as he handed me my ticket. Actually two of us weren’t very happy.

After we’d arrived home and gathered up all the toys from the van floor (somehow they multiply), Adam asked me if it had been worth the trip. I told him to ask me again in a few days. I’ve thought about it though and when I remember my children snuggled on my mother’s lap in the still twilight, having just witnessed a brilliant Nevada sunset from the front porch, I know I’d do it again. When I remember Braeden and his grandpa laughing at each other’s jokes or Emma, with about thirty barrettes in her hair lovingly placed by her cousin, I know it really was a great trip. I think more than the endless driving and fighting in the backseat over whose SPYKIDS 3 glasses were whose, my kids will remember me showing them my childhood swimming hole and their grandma telling them stories about listening to the same crickets when she was a little girl. I know I will.