The other weekend, my husband and I went on a lovely road trip to Tucson.
The above sentence is almost true. We did go on a road trip. And it was to Tucson. Whether or not it was lovely, however, is up for debate, since our children went with us. Inside the car. (It’s a state law or something. Turns out, the man says that it’s illegal to strap one or both of your children to the roof, no matter what kind of bungee cords you use.)
Here’s the thing about traveling with one of your children: it’s the best. Maybe it’s because you aren’t staring directly at one another, but suddenly you’re having the kinds of conversations that you always dreamed about having with your kids (before you had kids, that is). Conversations about clouds, state license plates, and, even, ( thanks to the prevalence of bumper stickers) politics and religion.
You’re telling them the story about the time you got stood up for the 7th grade dance, and they’re telling you that they’re not sure that they’re ready for long division. The silence in between topics isn’t awkward, because there’s always something to look at out of the window, and the shocking revelations they make (like the fear of long division) don’t draw anything other than mild parental concern, because, after all, you’re driving, and you can’t keep your eyes on the road and whip around and look at the back seat at the same time. (Or at least, I can’t. I have seen it done–once–unfortunately while I was in the passenger seat. We nearly rear-ended the car in front of us during the process.)
That’s how it is driving with one of your children. One. Singular. Here’s the thing, though, about driving with two or more of them: it’s hell. The same kid who, on her own, is the most delightful traveling companion–the kind that will cheerfully agree to wait another hour to stop for lunch, or to turn down the volume on her iPod–becomes completely intransigent when you add another child to the mix. Add a third–thereby making it necessary for legs to touch in the back seat–and you may as well be hauling livestock. In fact, I have traveled in a car with 1 goat, 12 chickens, and 2 rabbits (don’t ask), and I can tell you that they were much more agreeable traveling companions than my two children. And yes, each of those animals relieved themselves at some point during the trip. (Of course, so have my children, so that doesn’t really change anything.)
Anyway, towards the end of our road trip to Tucson (for those of you who haven’t done the math., that translates into about 300 miles of driving, or, in parental figures, about 12,624 fights), a series of billboards started to appear on the side of the road. Mixed in with the usual ones advertising truck stops, fast food, and, always curious to me, subdivisions (as if buying a house were an impulse decision: “Honey, do you want to stop at Burger King or McDonald’s?” “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just buy a house instead.”), there were billboards from a local church asking you a series of deep questions.
Questions like “When did you stop loving your wife?”; “When did you stop having fun?”; and, finally, “When did you stop enjoying your children?” When we passed the last one my husband and I turned to look at each other and spoke simultaneously. He said “Mountainnaire,” and I said “Kachina Village,” and we both smiled, because it was nice to know that even after fourteen years of marriage, there were some things we could totally agree on.
Like the fact that neither one of us wants to be in the same car with both of our children for more than five miles ever again.