The Family Road Trip From Hell
By: Pam Grimes
“A road trip to Canada will be fun for the whole family! C’mon, where’s your sense of adventure?” My husband of 26 years stood before me looking like a deranged camp counselor. Maybe it was the goofy Bermuda shorts or the glint of lunacy I saw lurking behind his eyes, but whatever it was, I’d just agreed to yet another ill-fated family vacation.
The family road trip is a rite of passage. Something to be endured, like a spinal tap or the comedy stylings of Carrot Top. If done correctly, with the right meds, a road trip shouldn’t leave any lasting scars, and hey, it just might build character… that is if no one gets seriously hurt or lands in the county lock-up.
My husband harbors delusions of bonding, like the Brady Bunch or Partridge Family, thinking he can deliver the perfect kumbayah family road 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 biting stench of parental desperation.
Traveling with this many kids requires more video game technology than Bill Gates has microchips. From the amount of cords and wires weaving through our minivan, it looks as if we’re ready to perform a coronary bi-pass. If we’re lucky and the batteries hold out, the children might not realize they’re car-bound until we reach the Canadian border. At which point I can resort to bribery in the form of inappropriate starches. Snack foods and technology in place, my husband fills the gas tank and I pack the essentials: vodka and…more vodka.
An hour into the trip, I realize that my children had not once removed their eyes from the seductive glow of digitized addiction in their hands. Like a maniacally perky tour guide, I try alerting them to key points of interest, but to no avail. Eventually, running out of roadside attractions, I resort to lies. “Look kids, a vicious pack of mutant zombies!” I squeal. But even this announcement is met with only monosyllabic responses. My husband drives and hums, 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, caked with duck-poo, while I sipped Grey Goose from a Pokemon thermos.
When the septic tank beneath our room burst, we gave up all hope of an enjoyable trip and fled at dawn, rolling our van silently down the driveway like the Von Trapps escaping into the hills. But instead of Nazis we were fleeing large waterfowl and the massive crap-pile that had erupted beneath us like the bowels of hell. It was clear that Canada no longer wanted us, and we couldn’t really blame it.
One three-hour ferry ride and a handful of Advil later, we arrived at the American border where we skidded to a halt for the hellish two-hour wait. Forced to resort to battery power, one by one the boys’ electronics began to die. Using his cell phone, my oldest called me from the back of the van with news of the crisis.
“Do they have batteries in Canada?” he asked.
“No.” I lied. And 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 latest calamity. As we drove they stared vacantly out the windows, blinking like mole people in the harsh sunlight. I recognized their squirrelly behavior as signs of withdrawal. Seeing this as a golden opportunity to bond with my boys, I studied their faces, like a suburban Jane Goodall, keeping close watch for eye contact or other signs of intelligent life.
“Don’t be afraid children, that’s the three-dimensional world out there,” I said, speaking 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 they began to relax and enjoy the sights. 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. We’d left behind our batteries and dung-coated tennis shoes, and taken with us some valuable lessons. We learned that our family can survive a three-day road trip, sans technology. Duck-poop stains are permanent. And our dog is in love with a Canadian goose named Afflack. I hate to break it to her, but long-distance relationships rarely work.
Pam Grimes is a Portland native, freelance writer, domestic diva and mother of three. She currently lives in Northwest Portland with her husband, three sons and their slightly bi-polar dog.
