The plan seemed a little struck the first time she shared him with me – but struck a charming way “Oh, you crazy children”.
A few months ago, my constantly energetic and free -minded hairdresser told me how she and her husband planned to pack their four daughters – all under the age of nine (including a four -month breastfeeding baby) – in a rented van for a small 1800 mile road trip to her grandfather 100th Birthday party. Six days after moving into a new house. I was inspired by his good humor assurance that whatever happens, it would be memories and an adventure. Thank God, she is so cold. Because the real journey was so much juicy and trying and spectacularly horrible than it seems.
First of all, two days before departure, the number two girl broke her arm. Then remember: packing for this required adventure unpacking Move boxes and try to dig up all the different articles including a family of six may need for four days on the road. (Like enough layers and wipes for a newborn And A toddler.) Then, during the reader of every night, none of the iPads or DVD players worked and no one had to. To keep the daughter number three (the toddler) silent, in desperate hope that the others could sleep, he was given the phone of Alyssa. Over the next four hours, girl number three used a whole month of shared data, resulting in $ 450 in surface costs.
Then, when it arrived in Denver, the rental van broke down. And obtaining a replacement vehicle required four hours on the phone with the rental company, eating one of their two days in Denver. To top it off, on the second day, the number two girl began to vomit. Followed by the number one girl. Followed by Alyssa. Make up in Alyssa his grandfather 100th Birthday party. The one they had led to 2 p.m. to attend.
Thus, the next morning, the slightly slightly nauseating family family hastened in the van for the 2 -hour journey to their new house for most boxes.
I know. RIGHT? Can you even.
It's worse than my own story of Road-Trip-From-Hell-because Aalyssa is the adult in it. And let's face it. Road trips are almost always more hell for adults than children. Except in my case, of course. I admit, I really did not think that an adult had worse than me while my own road trip in hell happened.
When I and my 13 -year -old cousin, my cousin, Amy, were blind by complete food poisoning at the hotel, just as we slipped to the back of her parents' car for New York's return to Minneapolis, I was not aware of anyone's hell but mine. As Uncle Bob had brought his sedan out of the era of the 70s from the Manhattan hotel car park, the pleasure had already started. The rear seat was filled with groans; Plastic bags were distributed to the giants (and maintained near the mouth); And each nest-poule, Klaxon and Swerve necessary to escape New York has become a lesson in torture. Our highly anticipated stop on the Niagara falls involved my aunt dragging me from the car and immersing me in a semi-dead position to make sure that I had at least a souvenir photo of the falls. I don't even remember looking at the water before bringing back into a fetal position on their picnic cover. After each day of driving, the cousin Amy and I are falling on our shared motel bed, too miserable for the generally irresistible treats of motel or motel food pools or even motel television. (It takes serious stomach aches, people.) Bob and Dorothy would escape the nearest restaurant for an hour or two of respite before joining the sick neighborhood. (Bless their always patient hearts.)
I felt terrible in all directions. Even at 11, I felt bad to ruin the trip. But I sometimes wonder … was it ruined? I mean, yes. It was bad. But… I have no doubt that during this endless school year at the house, while listening to the groans and eliminating these hot plastic bags from the passengers to the green face on the rear seat, this looked like a certain level of ruin for the poor adults at the front. Again …
Although I only remember a few protruding facts of our real week in New York, this campaign is forever engraved in my personal history. I remember very well to rest my head against the vinyl door sign, just high enough to look at the trees turn in front of the windows. I remember locking myself under covers in the bed of the motel, savoring the feeling of not being in a moving vehicle. I remember wishing to be at home, but wishing even more to have fun.
I also remember that I felt taken care of by my aunt and my uncle. And I remember an increasing feeling of fraternity with my cousin, because we suffered together and sometimes found the strength of laughter on this subject.
Another friend recently told me how she accidentally found herself in the bad bus in Mexico with her two young children during a trip, her husband agreed that she could take without him. What they thought would be a 17 -hour journey on a luxury bus turned into 15 hours of racing on bumpy roads on a bus without shock, no speed governors, person who spoke English, without a mobile phone and a constant flow of horn, heeling and classified films resounding from each seat file.
“It was horrible,” she said. “But it was also the adventure of a life.” Yeah. That. Let's be honest. All summer long, my Facebook flow was filled with these packaged cars selfies announcing the start of a trip to the cabin, the lake, the grandparents, the mountains and all the other corner of America accessible by car. I have no doubts that there was a lot of hell of road trip along the way. Today, I saw an article from one of these families who stumble on the road who fortunately discovered that the film Sing was not only a magic tonic for their toddler, but also an inspiration for the rest of the family. It has become the soundtrack of their holidays. What could be the reason why we are embarking on these crazy family travel trips? I mean, we know They will be part of happiness and hell. The only question is what the report will be. And – even when it is more hell than happiness – we somehow come home with our holiday soundtrack. Our family legend. Our story of survival just for testing. And perhaps it is these very memories that bring us almost all on the road. All except Alyssa. She never stumbles, she said. But let's give it a minute. Or a year. She could come. Oh, and for the record: I'm really sorry and bless you and thank you, Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Bob.
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Top image / Images 2, 3, 4 via Julie Rybarczyk.
Julie Rybarczyk is an independent writer, a blogger in good weather and an empty Nester mother who lives alone and loves her. She is perpetually the coldest person in Minneapolis – so most of the year, you will find them under layers of wool, behind cups of smoking tea. Or on social ones at @Shortsandlongs.
