Handling a Family Road Trip with Kids
November 16, 2010, By Ron Mattocks 3 comments
In a few weeks the family and I will be making our trek from Texas to Pennsylvania, and I’m thrilled about spending the time together, especially since it’s one of the few occasions when my sons and stepdaughters are able to see each other. We stay at my boyhood home which is located in a rural part of the state; so the kids spend most of their days much the way I did at their age - catching fish, building forts, chasing fireflies, etc. Scattered throughout will be visits to local festivals and nearby points of interest. Photos will be taken, and videos will be recorded as we catalog these near perfect memories.
It’s possible a case could be made accusing me of painting an overly nostalgic picture of familial bliss shaded with Norman Rockwell-like undertones, but I assure you—never mind, you’re right. I am. I’m ignoring the umpteen thousand-mile drive there and back that sandwiches the week of carefree fun in between.
As opposed to said “carefree fun” (who am I kidding; said “carefree fun” has its less-than-carefree moments too), cramming five kids into a minivan for a two-day journey is like stuffing a bunch of cats into a mailbox and expecting everyone to emerge unscathed. Not. Going. To. Happen.
Early on the trip is fine. The children revel in the novelty at having what seems like an endless supply of goodies, games, and movies all within their reach to be consumed at their leisure. However, once these resources have been exhausted, discontent and restlessness set in. Start to finish, this takes about 30 minutes.
Of course, at 30 minutes we’re barely beyond the city limits, but still, that doesn’t prevent the inevitable question: “Are we there yet?”
This sudden lapse in the children’s understanding of time and distance astounds me. Even when I point out that we are just now passing the mall where we do our Christmas shopping, the blank expressions of “so what” staring back through the rear-view mirror convey that any further explanation would be the very definition of an exercise in futility.
For some odd reason my silence in response to their question is interpreted as an invitation for them to register their individual grievances simultaneously. Any parent who has traveled with children for more than several hours is familiar with what I’m referring to.
“I’m bored.”
“I’m too hot.”
“They’re touching me.”
“I forgot my [favorite toy that they were told 6,000 times to pack].”
“I dropped my [blank] into [unreachable crevice of vehicle’s interior].”
Etcetera, etcetera.
It’s as if they believe I’m some combination of flight attendant, entertainment director and omnipotent god, able to scrounge up pretzel snacks, amuse their weary minds and exact justice on unrighteous siblings with a mere blink of my eyes (which, by the way, happen to be focused on the tractor trailer closing in on my tail-end).
Being a veteran traveler, I’m accustomed to my childrens’ low threshold for discomfort during long cross-country hauls, and this has lead to some very advanced techniques in dealing with such situations. I ignore them. In fact, my ears are programmed to filter all the fussin’ ‘n a feudin’ into a form of white noise that allows my brain to submerge into deep thought. And should they crank “Whale Songs and Clamoring Children” to a volume higher than an inside voice, my headphones come in rather handy.
On one trip I succeeded in listening to Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys in it’s entirety … well, most of it anyway. Fed up with being ignored for the previous six hours, my stepdaughter proceeded to (purposefully I suspect) pour a full cup of hot chocolate down her front letting it pool in her lap. The hot cocoa wasn’t even warm, but her wailing scream scared me so bad, I swerved off the road. Lesson learned: Children are masters of escalation when it comes to demanding attention, and they will not be deterred by an iPod.
This truth is also evident when the kids repeat their questions over and over hoping to have the validity of it confirmed via my response. At a certain point it’s clear that the incessant droning will not cease until it’s been acknowledged, which I eventually do but with standard, pat answers that restore silence without making any concessions in the process.
Discontented Child: “I’m hungry!”
Me: “We’ll be stopping for lunch in a few more miles.” (And by “few” I mean anywhere from 50 to 100).
Discontented Child: “The sun’s too bright. I can’t see.”
Me: “Close your eyes until it goes down.”
Discontented Child: “I have to go to the bathroom.”
I have to go to the bathroom.
I’d like to stop here for a second. Once upon a time I would counter this with, “Sorry, you’re just going to have to hold it until we stop again.” Here’s the thing, though: when a kid says that they have to “go,” the situation suddenly turns into the single most lopsided game of chicken a parent can play with their child. This is a conclusion I reached after one of my sons couldn’t hold it any longer and then dropped a massive “load” in his drawers. Now I flinch every time, no questions asked, a course of action I also follow, albeit with a bit more urgency, whenever the words “throw up” are co-joined to warn of the potential threat of vomit.
To this point what I’ve failed to mention is that for the majority of these trips, I am the sole adult present. That’s right, five kids, a man, a van and a plan. Why? Because of my wife’s work schedule, she is unable to make the drive and flies up later to join us. Even so, acting as the co-pilot, stewardess, and navigator in addition to my role as pilot may sound like I’m road trippin’, but flying solo isn’t that tough provided I prepare beforehand for every conceivable contingency.
Pre-packaged bags full of snacks distributed to each child. Check.
Extra batteries and car chargers on hand for dead hand-held gadgets and phones. Check.
Activity books and games strategically placed in seat pockets and sorted according to age group. Check.
Secondary DVD player on hand in case the primary goes down. Check. (Murphy’s Law of Family Trips #383: If it can break, it will and usually right in the middle of the smallest child’s favorite part).
Road atlas with highlighted routes and pages tabbed by state. Check. (Yes, I’ve heard of OnStar, but the wankers canceled my service for exceeding the number of allowable times one can ignore suggestions to turn right or left).
Does all of this help? It does. Or that’s what I convince myself to believe until about midway through the first day when reality tells me otherwise. Despite my best-laid plans, something or another succeeds in thwarting my efforts.
The kids don’t like their snacks (that they picked out), and then they whine about being hungry. There’s always one gadget I try to revive by switching out an entire package of batteries only to discover that someone broke it a week earlier. The headphones to the DVD player all need to be untangled, half of which don’t work anyway because someone was chewing on the wires. And road construction traps us in congested traffic as my low-tech navigational system is not equipped to inform me about such delays.
It’s these situations that cause me to reflect on what road trips were like when I was a child. There were no video games or movies to occupy the hours. My parents couldn’t tune us out with an MP3 player; instead, they subjected everyone to whatever static-pitted sound caught their attention while turning the knobs on the AM/FM radio.
Air conditioning wasn’t an option available for our station wagon and the windows in the back seat didn’t roll down, leaving us to rely on a small stream of air coming through an adjustable vent in the corner of the two windows up front. Further adding to this agony was the 55 mile-per-hour, national speed limit (“55 Saves Lives”) which everyone except us seemed to be ignoring.
I realize referencing this makes me sound like a geezer, but let’s face it, kids today could never survive such road trip hardships. They’ve gone soft, something I accuse my own children of in a round-about way by relaying stories of slow, hot drives to Niagara Falls, Sea World and Three Rivers Stadium. Yet these stories never reach their conclusion. Shortly after I begin, my kids execute a standard drill, grabbing for the closest object that will offer them an escape from my tales of a world they doubt even existed. I don’t mind being snubbed though. It’s makes for a pleasant ride.
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