Road Trip from Hell
The family road trip is a rite of passage or maybe something to be endured like a spinal tap or the comedy stylings of Carrot Top. If done correctly and with the right medication, a road trip shouldn’t leave any lasting scars. And it just might build character — that is if no one loses a finger or lands in the county lock-up.
I’m not sure how my husband coerced me into a road trip to Canada. Maybe it was his goofy smile or the glint of lunacy lurking in his eyes as he unveiled his plans, but whatever the reasons I’d agreed to another ill-fated family vacation.
My husband harbors delusions of bonding like the Brady Bunch, thinking he can deliver the perfect Kum-Ba-yah family trip. The reality is three boys, two overly-caffeinated adults and one incontinent dog crammed into a sweltering minivan. Trust me; no one wants to sing camp songs while choking on the rank smell of old sweat socks, dog flatulence and the bitter stench of parental desperation.
Traveling with three boys requires a great deal of video game technology. The morning of our road trip I watched as my husband diligently MacGyvered our family van. From the amount of cords and wires weaving through the interior, it looked as if we we’re attempting to launch our minivan into deep space.
We hoped to make it to the Canadian border before the kids noticed they were car-bound. At which point we would resort to bribery in the form of snack foods. Twizzlers and technology in place, my husband loaded the kids and dog, while I packed the essentials: vodka and more vodka.
An hour into the trip, I realized that my children had not once removed their eyes from the seductive incandescent glow of digital gaming in their hot little hands. I tried distractions. “Look, kids, a vicious pack of mutant zombies!” I squealed pointing out the window. This was met with monosyllabic grunts from the backseat. They knew better. My husband drove and hummed, seemingly oblivious. Lucky bastard.
What followed was a three-day voyage of the damned. We stayed at a Canadian bed and breakfast where our dog repeatedly tried to trap and make sweet love to the innkeeper’s pet goose. The goose flapped and honked, violently rebuffing our dog’s cross-species affections. As the vacation unspooled, the children ran amok, sneakers caked with goose poop, while I sipped Grey Goose from a Pokemon thermos and clicked my heels together chanting “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”
When the septic tank buried directly beneath our room burst, we gave up all hope of an enjoyable trip. We packed and fled at dawn, rolling our van silently down the driveway like the Von Trapps escaping to the hills. But instead of Nazis, we were fleeing large waterfowl and a massive crap-pile that had erupted from the bowels of hell beneath us. It was clear that Canada no longer wanted us, and we couldn’t blame it.
One very long ferry ride and a several handfuls of Advil later, we arrived at the American border where we skidded to a halt for a hellish two-hour wait. Forced to resort to battery power, one by one the boy’s electronics began to die.
Using his cell phone, my oldest called from the back of the van with news of the crisis.“Mom, do they have batteries in Canada?” he whispered. Still holding the phone to my ear, I looked back at him and silently shook my head. The line went dead.
Video games cast aside; the boys slouched listlessly in their seats. It was clear from their sullen glares that I was somehow to blame for this disaster.
As we drove, they stared vacantly out the windows, blinking like mole people in the harsh sunlight. Recognizing their squirrelly behavior as signs of withdrawal, I silently studied their faces, keeping a close watch for eye-contact or other signs of intelligent life.
“Don’t be afraid boys, that’s the three-dimensional world out there,” I cooed in soothing tones. “You won’t find any cyborgs or radiated beetles roaming the countryside here.”
This revelation was met with some initial disappointment, but as the hours passed the kids began to relax and actually enjoy the drive. By the time we rolled back into Stumptown, we’d played several rousing games of License Plate Bingo, I Spy and Slug Bug.
Our return trip supplied me with a renewed sense of hope. By unplugging technology, we’d managed to plug back into our family. And along the way, we discovered a few things. We learned that our family could indeed survive a trip sans technology, duck poop will permanently stain sneakers, and our dog, Inca, was madly in love with a Canadian goose named Afflack.
I hate to break it to Inca but long distance, interspecies relationships rarely work.
