The Dreaded Family Road Trip

A sliver of sunlight peeks through the window alerting me to the day. I shuffle towards my husband’s side of the bed and plant a kiss on his back. He pulls me in and strategically slips my hand into his boxers. I smile sleepily. This morning is getting off to a good start indeed. Then we hear it. So quiet at first that it almost doesn’t register. The clatter picks up steam and it becomes undeniable. Six tiny feet tumbling down the stairs, ascending onto our bed. My husband and I, now fully awake, blink at each other and at once realize what day it is. “FUCK,” we shriek in unison. Today is the day. Today starts our family vacation.

I feel my husband’s boner shrivel like a prune.  I spring into action. Not the action I was hoping for but with three children and a dog now in our marital bed, it’s probably best to leave it for later. And by later I mean a month from now when the excruciating memories of this road trip with our children vanish.

I manage to catch my toddler as he’s teetering off the edge of the bed, cupcake in one hand, matchbox car in the other. Where in the shit did he find a cupcake before 7am? No matter, my 10-year-old son is headed down the stairs with his suitcase in his hand. “Hold it, mister. I need to inspect the contents.” After much eye rolling he relents. I sigh as I pull out a single pair of underwear, 6 swimsuits, a Snickers bar, and his ‘Fat People Are Harder To Kidnap’ T-shirt, which is meant to be ironic but usually gets me eye rolls.

As I march him back to his room, his 12-year-old sister exclaims for the fourth time how “lame” this vacation will be. Her brother inadvertently (on purpose) throws a single tennis shoe down the stairs, barely nicking her on the shoulder blade. She sounds like a pterodactyl being stabbed to death. Punching ensues. I attempt to calm the situation with empty threats of electronics being flushed down the toilet.

Note to self: remember to check the toilets before we leave the house. No one wants a repeat of the Great Vacation of 2003. Turns out a fresh turd simmering in the toilet for 10 days during which time you have turned off the AC and closed every window takes weeks to dissipate.

I turn my attention to The List. I would die a thousand deaths without it. If any action is taken during my day that was not originally on The List, I will finish the task, write it on The List and then promptly cross it off.

I finish packing the kids suitcases along with bug spray, calamine lotion and Benadryl, run the dog to the kennel, fill a cooler full of fresh fruit for the kids and a flask for myself, pointlessly toss a novel in my tote, water the plants, throw the fishing poles in the car, fill the cat’s bowl with a shitload of Friskies, and help the toddler wipe his ass. I run upstairs to grab The Swimsuit That Doesn’t Make My Ass Look Big in time to witness my husband stepping out of the shower.

I just finished the domestic Olympics during the time it took my husband to wash his balls.

We manage to pile into the car. Only 47 minutes behind schedule. Our trunk looks like an episode of Hoarders. We get not two minutes out of the driveway and the child I fondly refer to as “not likely Harvard bound” says, “Um, mom, can you help me?” I look back and wouldn’t you know he’s gotten a fish hook jammed straight into his middle finger. Super. Pit stop at the gas station for Band-Aids. The toddler waddles in after me clutching a jumbo box of 64 crayons, his newest sidekick. As I turn to get the Band-Aids, he lurches forward for a bag of Circus Peanuts and dumps the entire contents of said box onto the gas station floor.

I scoop them up along with a stranger’s gum and broken promises and head back to the car. With everyone safely tucked into car seats and electronics, I squeeze my husband’s hand. “We can do this,” I manage. It’s more of a question than a statement. We head off down the road, determined to make memories that will last a lifetime.

“Mooooooom, can you pull over? I just spilled all of my grape Kool-Aid in my lap.”