When my husband travels, he “travels like a man.”  This definition is subject to interpretation, but it mostly involves bathroom breaks and packing.  For nearly twenty years, he has made his annual guy trip to southern Florida via a car (yeah, annual guy trip.  More on that later).  This trip is “hard driving full throttle twenty- four-hour journey with little stopping.”  His car has had various male occupants, but the rules remain the same. No chit-chat.  This is serious driving which requires full concentration.  No amount of conversation is going to make the trip faster.  No eating.  Eating produces bathroom breaks. There might be a drive-thru McDonalds hiatus but only if the driver deems it necessary and only if said place is within one mile of the interstate.  Definitely no drinking; no soda, no water, no tea.  Again, these only encourage negligent stopping.  If these must be done, it is only out of dire necessity.  Definitely no long term stopping.  If this happens, “we won’t make good time.” It is like the God of Schedules hammered out an agenda that cannot be broken. If the timetable does go astray, tempers flare and fingers are pointed.  Furthermore, one bag per rider.  No overpacking.  If some newbie brings two bags, he will be mercilessly shamed.  One year my husband and occupants sped out of the garage and left it looking like a lost baggage claim area.  I worriedly grabbed a bag and ran down the driveway only to get a dismissive hand wave. Months later I may hear about a traveler who had no underwear for the week but these situations are met with utter resolve.  I attribute much of this behavior to my husband’s army days.  For years, I thought when he travelled to remote 3^rd world places that Army transport planes were not equipped with restrooms (sparse as they are).  He insisted the MRE’s are edible with enough Tabasco.  And if it can’t fit into a rucksack, it doesn’t need to go.  The rest of the travelers simply must “man up” and for some inexplicable reason, all the men seem to enjoy this sojourn into simplistic accommodations.

Despite my working knowledge of these tribunal male behaviors, I happily planned a family road trip to Georgia.  I erroneously assumed traveling together as a large family unit wouldn’t be that much different than traveling separately.  For days leading up to our departure, Ray prepped the kids on the seriousness of the long road ahead of us.  They were lectured incessantly on the need to scale back the frivolities of comfort to adhere to the ETA he painstakingly planned and set forth.  However, he should have realized his plan wasn’t fail proof when the patio became a full- scale loading dock of gear that had to be precariously packed into the van.  Each child was finally settled into a permanent spot when the youngest came toddling out of the house with three bags of toys.  He looked like a little summer Santa.  As soon as Ray got out “you can’t take. . . “ our youngest’s luminous blue eyes filled with tears, his lip quivered, and he choked out “but I need my ‘fings Daddy.”  With that, Ray was beat before he started.  However, it was only the van that was overpacked.  We could still make good time. With a final and authoritative “We are not stopping until we absolutely must” he pulled from the drive.  I muttered “We’ll see;” he gave me a dirty look, the van bottomed out at the end of the drive; nonetheless, we were on our way.

It wasn’t something I gave a great deal of thought but certainly now realize how enticing truck stops are to kids.  They are like miniature cities, an awaiting behemoth sprawling across acres of land.  Brightly colored carnival like lights beckon the weary traveler to rest, possibly, but mostly to spread capitalism far and wide.  Aisle after aisle of King Midas like gadgets, books, scratchy ponchos, (you never know, you may be cold), drinks, and more ready-made junk food than some people see in a lifetime await the arrival of those with little will power, or those with small children.  These are not entirely the same.  That is where we stand.  Our first stop took us to the Mecca of All Truck Plazas.  As soon as the Taj Mahal came into view, the children began their monk like “I have to pee” chant which grew to feverish moans and stomach clutching.  Of course, I panicked at the thought of an accident at this early stage and advised the sergeant of the urgent request. Only because gas is cheaper were we allowed this stop and I was mid-lecture in the dangers of what evil lurks in truck stops when the inhabitants sprang from the van and into the mystic.  I ran full throttle as each child disappeared into the fun house of parental horrors.  I headed for the restrooms and when the boys emerged, it was like they had traveled to the 9^th circle of Hell as they painstakingly recounted hop-scotching a dreadful accident.  I attempted to jostle them out of the store, however, we ran smack into the largest slushy machine I have ever seen.  It was like an octopus whose tentacles pulsated and throbbed with running sugared ice of every color imagined.  Each one of their little legs skittered to a halt, their eyes glazed over for a moment and then it began.  Mom, please. Mommy, please. Please, can we get one? We will be good.  This is so cool. Please Mom.  PLEASE.  I am so thirsty.  Mom, Mom, please.  Where is your money? It isn’t that much money.  We won’t get anything else for the whole trip.  Please. Please.  Please. I could feel life coming to a halt around us.  I mean four twisting and winding kids and one adult are hard to side step.  The impatient sighs began from other travelers.  At this time my husband appeared and gave me the look coupled with the wrist watch tap.  I really don’t like the tap so I decided to indulge a bit, after all, it was vacation.  I allowed each child a slushie and some other obnoxious snack for an outrageous fee of $22.   After the kids were done combining flavors into an undrinkable mix, Ray’s nostrils began to flare.  A half hour of time was lost, gone forever, unreturnable.   We will have to make up for “lost time.”  How does one do this?  It is still a mystery to me; nonetheless, I nodded gravely and promised to do better.

I found out all too quickly what grasping for that unreachable lost time meant.  As the RPM’s whined and we hit 80 mph in the slow lane around Atlanta, my mother’s 6^th sense careened into high alert.  I caught sight of the youngest and immediately recognized trouble.  His eyes began to water, his mouth contorted; I reached frantically for the emergency plastic bag but it wasn’t there.  Who didn’t replace it from the last vomit episode?   It was too late; the baby began to spew and splatter the semi-digested slushie all over himself, the car-seat, and the floor.  Of course, he started to cry and when his wailing reached orca like decibels, my conversation with my husband went like this:

GD Shelley, do something. We need to stop. Hell no we are not stopping again.  Seriously, there is puke everywhere.  It is your fault for giving him that slushie.  We can’t afford to stop now.  If we are going to stay on track, we’ve got to push it here. You can take that schedule and shove. . .

However, to avoid further shocking the children, I quickly squeezed into the backseat, spit on a paper towel, cleaned and soothed the little one as only a mom can.  Before long, the sugar buzz wore out, the sun began to set, and little eyes closed one by one.

I was the first of the passengers to awake to the pitch-black night and notice the E on the gas tank looming ominously before me.   Uh, honey, I don’t know if you noticed but the gas is getting kind of low.  Silence.  Hmm.  Ten miles, Uh, have you noticed the gas is a bit low? We are in unfamiliar territory.  We should stop while we are in a brightly lit section of the city.  Heavy sigh and slight nostril flare.   I know this vehicle and know exactly how much gas is left.  Well, listen Genie, you can’t make a nice gas station just appear in the dark.  Get gas.  At this, the oldest popped open his eyes but Mr. Eavesdropper already knew the situation.  He leaned forward, looked at the gas gauge, and said “Mom, we stopping for gas?” Yes, unless your dad wants us to run out and become a very bad made for TV movie.  Oh, damn, wrong words.  Suddenly, Reese’s active imagination kicked into high and the tears began roll down his face, first quietly then with more ferocity.  Just as I tell him to cool it, he shakes his sister out of her slumber.  In a matter of nanoseconds, he has the entire car in an uproar and number three child begins to wail “I don’t want us to be killed on ‘cation.”  For the love of Pete, Ray, stop and get gas so the children stop crying.  One by one, well- lit gas stations blur past us at blinking speeds.  Finally, as the crescendo of wailing peaked, we screeched off a dimly lit exit and traveled ten miles off course.  You really think this is a good idea? Coasting on fumes, my husband pulls into perhaps the smallest gas station I have ever seen.  I don’t even think all six of us will fit into the interior. The smoky windows are barred, cast off tires are scattered across the lot, and the exterior is illuminated by one dangling lifeless sign.  The wary clerk peaked his head over the precariously stacked filthy boxes and even he seemed shocked to see us.  Honestly, this is what you chose? I glare at my husband.  I didn’t want another slushie episode, he replied.  Restrooms were locked but luckily located inside the building.  After I obtained the ancient skeleton key, I coaxed each child into using the decrepit rocking toilet that I had to steady with my foot. At this point, I don’t even worry about germs; survival mode kicks into high.  Get in, do your business, get out.  Unusable rusty brown water spit out of the tap, no towels or soap anyway.  We were all used to the vomit smell on the youngest now anyway.  The kids and I made a dash for the locked van but then had to wait in the gloomy darkness while Ray bought a lukewarm Cherry Coke and a Payday he later found tasted like cardboard.  I not so secretly found this funny and muttered things like “serves you right” as we hit cruising speed.

As the sun rose, I was dismayed to see the four lines of traffic of ahead of us coming to a complete stop. Before he even hit the turn signal, I knew my husband would take the first available exit.  Because of GPS, this isn’t quite as scary as say, twenty years ago, but nonetheless, some of the unfamiliar rural roads in the South can be daunting.  Yes, I may have may watched Deliverance one too many times, (who hasn’t?) but even so, blazing through unchartered territory is frightening.  We plowed along aimlessly and then I felt that flutter in my ear “Mommy, I have to pee.”  The child didn’t want dad to hear, yet.  That is our system.  As long as we can keep him out of the loop, the better. I turn to look at my daughter and await the signal which shows how long she can wait.  She gives me the five-finger notification; damn, not much time, and damn, as I look out my window at the desolate scenery, we are indeed embedded in no-where land. Nevertheless, I begin. Honey, your daughter must use the restroom.  Yes, I realize we are out in the middle of nowhere.  You got us here.  She has to go though.  She really thought she could hold It; she has been trying.  I know you didn’t urinate for 24 hours once during a mission.  That’s awesome.  But she is six and she needs to go.  Ray made a sharp turn that sent us all slamming to the right and we barreled down and even more unfamiliar rode.  I looked at him nervously as he suddenly screeched to a stop on a small worn-down path next to the forest so dense with foliage that it looked like night.  Sgt. Dad boomed “Okay, everybody out and take a piss.”  The boys’ eyes brightened as they bounded out of the car, but our daughter looked distraught as she whispered, “Mommy I can’t pee without a potty.”  I am a product of rural America and I confidently tell her “Sure you can.  Mommy will show you.”  I directed the boys to one side of the car and took our daughter to the other.  As I began to show her the finer points of roadside toiletry, she turned her back.  It isn’t polite to watch someone pee and it is really gross anyway.  Quickly, our oldest began to harass his brothers on the other side of the van and it escalated without warning.   Watch it! You will step in his pee.  Watch it! You are going to fall in the dirt.  Watch it! I think that is poison.  Watch it! Is that a snake? The bushes just moved.  MOOOOOOOM! I slowly turn to see Ray in the driver’s seat of the van, impatiently drumming on the steering wheel.  And I got the wrist tap, again.  With fire coursing through my veins, I wrestled the little boys back into the van and shut the door before he could say a word. I situated Reese and Reagan on either side of the headlight with stern directions to pee.  I stood in the middle and waited for the pattering on gravel.  Nothing.  Abruptly the sun ducked behind a cloud. In the seconds we stand there, the air seemed to grow suddenly thicker, denser. Rustling trees came to a stand-still.  It’s like I can feel an unwelcome presence and the hair stood up on my neck.  Okay not really but it was eerily quiet and so with that we glanced at one another and made a sprint to the safe confines of the van. Again, too much “Investigative Discovery” tv.  Just when my husband hit cruising speed, I broke the bad news.  No one peed.  No, I am not kidding.  Stage Fright.  Kids don’t seem to pee outside a lot in front of each other anymore.  Well, I don’t know why for sure other than it was creepy out there. Yes, I realize you didn’t have actual restrooms for most of your military career.  I realize you had to relieve yourself in less than ideal situations.  When we get home, I guess you will need to take the kids to the woods and don’t let them come home until they have all mastered the art of outdoor usage.  Until then, you need to find a truck stop.

When we finally did stop, things deteriorated quickly in the store.  Hours upon hours of cramped quarters wore thin on the happy family.  Once again, in the presence of excess, the youngest pretty much lost his mind.  I read that a Syrian war refuge fell to her knees and wept upon her first visit to an American grocery store.  This is akin to Roark’s reaction but much edgier.  He wanted it all and not just a little of the all, all of the all.  Peanuts, popcorn, flaming hot Cheetos, potato chips, Pepsi, Wild Cherry Pepsi, a snow cone, a book, a video.  You name it, he had it in his hot little hand.  I felt a little sorry for the customer who bought the Reese’s cup that I pried out of his scorching grip and returned to the shelf.  It might not have been the best time to pick a battle, but I drew the line with a firm “No, we have snacks in the car” and I wasn’t backing down. Unfortunately, neither was he.  By the time I hoisted him to my hip, he was a hysterical banshee.  And while our kids incessantly harass each other, it is in times of crisis that they really come together.  Regrettably, their solidarity was not in support of their weary mother, but their wronged brother.  As I attempted to muscle all four out of the store, I could feel the eyes of all the patrons boring into my soul, into my failure as a mother.  I knew it because I have given that look and the “tsk tsk” under my breath when I witnessed such a debacle.  Upon hearing the wretched sobbing echoing over the parking lot, Ray glanced up at us from the gas pump and a look of horror crossed his face. While we exchanged terse pleasantries, I shakily buckled each distressed child into the seat then grabbed the snack bag out of the back of the van.  I instructed Ray to get “the hell out of here” but when he stomped on the gas, the hatch popped open, and a trail of stuffed animals, towels, unmatched flip flops and granola bars began to litter the gas station parking lot.  Amidst the screaming we didn’t even notice right away that our load was lighter. It was Roark who noticed the open door which turned his hysterical screaming into maniacal Chuckie like laughter that spread through the children.  Ray slammed on the brakes and as I collected the errant items on the road, something in my husband snapped.  Years of military training and male traveling had not prepared him for this.  Like Han Solo driving the Millennium Falcon, he flew down the street into the next McDonalds drive thru.  In his best “I mean business voice” he said, “What does everyone want?” Silence.  Again, sternly, deeply, loudly: “What does everyone want?” Finally, the baby quipped through painful sobs “We don’t want ‘Donalds, Daddy.  We want the ‘fruck top.”  We didn’t speak to each other the rest of the way home.

As the years quickly passed, travel became easier.  Everyone grew on that trip and learned the raw lessons that come from such trying times.  People snap.  However, last summer, when the boys began their restless “I have to pee” chant, I good-humoredly told them to pee in a bottle.  Again, as soon as those words were out, they were lost to the ages.  Never to be returned.  When their dad learned of the “who can fill the most bottles game” we suddenly began stopping more frequently.  We had to keep a dutiful eye on the back seat and became increasingly suspicious of quiet concentration.  At a gas stop, where I bought them all snacks and drinks like I was flush with money, I made them throw away their trophies and promise to not do it again.  They looked at me so sweetly, kissed me profusely and thanked me for the snacks.   A few weeks later, when I was grocery shopping, I spilled a bag of apples in the car.  I dug under the seat to collect them and while I didn’t find any apples, I did find a very suspicious water bottle that didn’t appear safe for drinking.  I guess they won the war after all.