Unfortunately, the radio has no such compunction about offending young ears.  I guess musicians assume that kids under the age of twelve are still listening to Raffi or Barney.  I wish.  My youngest son, now six years old, is enamoured with all songs Top 40.  The trashier the song, the more he seems to love it.  It is unnerving to hear a sweet looking little boy belt out lyrics like, “Boys try to touch my junk!”  And I’m pretty sure he thinks Katie Perry is actually referring to real popsicles when she sings California Girls (Lord, I hope so anyways.)  I find so many songs offensive that our family minivan has oftentimes turned into a battleground as I flip stations to find the most suitable music. 

“Leave it!” my boys will shriek, “I LOVE that song!” 

“It’s rude,” I’ll respond, “You shouldn’t be singing about this kind of stuff, much less KNOW about it.”

“No, we love it, we love it,” they’ll beg, my youngest always the loudest, his eyes filling with tears. “Turn it back!”

The problem with a car is that a screaming six year old cannot be sent to his room for a time-out and there’s no chance of reasoning with him when I have to focus on that BMW I’m about to ram into or the yellow light I’m racing through.  So my choice almost always comes down to: Do I listen to him freak out for the next ten minutes while I’m driving or do I just turn back to the song?  Usually the song wins (with my own f-bomb scratching at my throat to come out.)

At least the radio is kind enough to bleep out the curses.  But to filter out the songs about sex and drunkenness (gosh there’s a lot of them out there), I need to download hand-picked songs.  That’s when I realize that the songs that seemed “safe” are filled with swear words.  Little Lion Man is a fantastic song that I loved hearing on the radio.  I put it on a disc and listened to it with the kids.  I haven’t gotten around to counting how many times it sings the f-word.  I’ll let you know when I do.  And, we learned that Damn, she’s a sexy Bitch, not a sexy chick — nothing like your neighbourhood Whore?  Gee kids, let’s have a sing-along! 

There’s no winning this fight.  The kids wanna sing.  And heck, so many of these tunes are catchy!  We’ve created a compromise and the kids have agreed to use their own bleeps.  I just shrug my shoulders and smile when I hear my son belt out one of his favourite songs:

“When you see my face, hope it give you hah, hope it give you hah!  When you walk my way hope it give you hah, hope it gives you hah!”

Oh hell, what’s a mom to do?

My youngest son, however, spoke up after his brothers.  “I liked seeing all the things, Mom.” 

He is, of course, the one who cares the least for video games.  On the other hand, he’s also the one who asks every 3o minutes, “How much longer till we get there?” 

Regardless of whether my kids soaked in every moment of every experience we had throughout the road trips, the memories that matter most, that will sink into their very characters, are those of spending time together.  And that, my fellow road warriors, is going to happen with or without the DS Nintendos.

Our Montana minivan is as much a barfing receptacle as our bedroom floors.  And, what may appear to be a perfectly healthy child at the start of the trip could, in fact, metamorphose into a faucet of scrambled food.  Unfortunately, there are really no ways to prevent nausea (other than to slip Gravol into their peanut butter sandwiches, but let’s not go there.)  Thankfully, there is a way to prevent the worst part of throwing up -  the clean up. 

We always pack a barf pitcher.  Known by most families as a juice pitcher.  It has come in handy several times over the past few years when one of the kids has claimed a sore tummy.  “I feel like I’m gonna barf,” is the preferred statement uttered by my kids at least once every couple of hours in the minivan.  I will reach behind the drivers’ seat and grab the pitcher.  “Use this if you need to throw up, ” I’ll calmly advise the sick one.  The precaution provides peace of mind, even if the likelihood of the complainer filling it is close to zero. 

Our past road trip through the Maritimes, I was beginning to think the pitcher was no longer a necessary item on our packing list.  No one had actually thrown up in the van in five years.  However, during the final leg of our drive out of the Maritimes and into Maine, the undulating curves of the road proved too much for our six year old. 

He warned us of his predicament and, as usual, we pass along the clean pitcher and told him to use it if necessary.  After six episodes of vomiting, the pitcher was half full and the car reeked like a bad hangover.  When he finally had emptied his insides, we pulled over the side of the road and cleaned out the container with a bottle of water and some wipes.

The clean up took less than two minutes and our car didn’t suffer a speck of vomit.  I’ll never question the value of a barf pitcher again.

They proved correct, in most instances.  The beaches were beautiful from Nova Scotia, to Cape Breton, and of course, PEI.  Buying lobster straight off a boat topped our list of seafood thrills (of which there were many.)  Bon fires at night, mussel bakes, and the gentle Gaelic lilt of soft spoken Cape Bretoners were just a few of the experiences that painted a charming portrait of maritime life.  However, we were never convinced that these simple Eastern folk were a friendlier breed than the rest of Canada (or, at least Ontario.)  Sure, the hotel staff was courteous (it’s their job) and we didn’t come across a snooty waiter at any restaurants.  But based on what we’d been told, we’d expected personal invitations inside people’s homes where they would share their family’s history over a bowl of homemade chowder.

About five days into our trip, we both came to a similar conclusion: the friendly scale remained static from Ontario to Nova Scotia (well, it did dip slightly in Quebec City, but isn’t that part of their culture?)  We’d been slightly disappointed after all that we’d been promised, but shrugged our shoulders and patted our Ontario backs.  Torontonians weren’t so miserable after all, it appeared.  But then I drove through a small town called Liverpool.

Liverpool is a five-minute drive from White Point Resort, where we stayed.  It boasted two grocery stores, a liquor store, a few fast food restaurants, and a thriving telemarketing business (where employees loitered outside the front door with smokes every time we drove by.)  We attempted a stroll along its small downtown but quickly realized the stores weren’t all that quaint and that there seemed to be a general contempt for visitors.  The local Home Hardware sold derogatory “Caution: tourists” signs a few feet from the checkout counter.  I guess they’d never heard of the term don’t bite the hand that feeds you. 

The early evening that I’d set out to Liverpool, our wine selection was quite diminished.  I was elected by my husband to drive the minivan to town to pick up a few bottles, along with some groceries.  While most of the route was quite straight forward, I was unsure at a couple of intersections and found myself having to make a three-point turn a few minutes from the grocery store.  As is so often the case, when I began the u-turn, there were no cars in sight.  However, at the “second” point in the turn, a car emerged.  It was gunning toward me, as if to ensure that I would force it to slow down, thereby offer the driver an opportunity to be pissed off.

As I completed the third point in my turn, I lifted my left hand in thanks to the driver who’d been forced to slow down.  With my thule carrier atop the minivan, coated in bumper stickers from various cities and states, I figured he could appreciate my predicament – ”We’ve all been there! Hope you find what you’re looking for!”  Not so.

As I waved with a smile, my periphery vision caught a young man’s face sticking out of his window as he yelled as loud as he could, “Fuckin’ Foriegner!”  I slowly lowered my hand and kept driving.  Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the cargo carrier on my van.  Or the Ontario license plate – y’know that province that is part of Canada?  Maybe he’d mistaken my wave for an ancient language only known to a dwindling Zimbabwean tribe.  I don’t know.  But for one who has travelled through Europe, Asia, and the United States, the first time I’d ever been called a foreigner was in my own country.  It was disheartening.

I realize I cannot and should not base my impression of all Maritimers on this one particularly miserable individual, but he certainly eliminated any residual romantic notions of meeting those fine, chit-chatting, small town Maritimers that I’d heard so much about.  Or maybe it was just Liverpool.

• Stop in Quebec City on the way and spend a day in Old Quebec.  Founded in 1608 by Samuel Champlain, this beautiful old city still boasts relics from its early days, including cobblestone streets and buildings aged in the hundreds.  Visit the museum, eat crepes, shop the artisan market and a day is quickly filled. 
• See Hopewell Rocks on the Bay of Fundy by Moncton, New Brunswick.  The kids will love to walk on the squishy dirt that was, only hours earlier, covered by ocean.  Wear flip flops or crocks for easy cleaning… They’ll get dirty!
• Drive your car up a hill backwards at Magnetic Hill in Moncton, New Brunswick.  This will take about fifteen minutes to do, so don’t plan your day around it – unless you wish to hang out at the adjoining amusement park and zoo.  We did not.
• Visit Mahone Bay and Lunenburg in Nova Scotia to see authentic Maritime living.  We visited both on one day trip, travelling from a resort called White Point in Liverpool. 
• Buy lobsters off a boat.  This may not be available every province you visit, so find out lobster season in advance for each region.  We finally found boatloads of them in Cape Breton.
• Cook your own lobster.  It’s easier than you’d ever imagine and more gastronomically satisfying than buying them already cooked.
• Eat lots and lots of mussels.  And learn how to cook these, too (add white wine and garlic for a sensational flavour.)
• Go whale watching in Cape Breton.
• Drive along the Cabot Trail, and better yet, stay in a resort or B&B along the trail for a truly rustic vacation.  I’d recommend the Celtic Lodge (higher end) or Glenghorm (the more digs in which we stayed for four days.)
• Sit by a bonfire twenty feet from the ocean.
• Attend a lobster supper in PEI.  We joined hundreds of other hungry diners at the New Glasgow Lobster Suppers, crammed inside the church hall for a sumptuous meal that included a pound of lobster each, all you can eat mussels, clam chowder, salads, boiled potatoes, and dessert for an incredible $30.  (Kids menu also available.)
• Walk the red beaches in PEI with the kids and swim in the warm ocean water (while dodging jellyfish.)
• Visit every art gallery, pottery store, and gift shop you pass - there are treasures to be found among the hundreds of Maritime artisans.
• Dig for clams in PEI, then cook’em up and eat’em.  (Okay, we didn’t do this… couldn’t fathom dragging three boys in the blistering heat to dig in hot sand for something they might not want to eat later.)
• Join a fisherman for a trip out on a boat.  My husband and ten-year-old son joined a fishing boat in PEI and each caught mackerel and cod that we later seared for a true fisherman’s dinner.
• Drive back to Ontario through a different route.  We drove to the Maine border and stayed overnight in Freeport.  Back in the land of commercialism, we embraced the outlet stores and added a few more “souvenirs” to our collection.

1. The beaches are beautiful, but the best ones are in PEI. 
2. Hotels don’t provide a good cup of coffee and the Maritimes don’t have Tim Hortons at every corner (much less Starbucks!)  If you’re a sucker for the good stuff, pack your own coffee maker and beans (or a kettle and quality instant coffee.) 
3. There is such a thing as McLobster (we didn’t try it, though.)
4. One map is never enough.  Collect as many as you can along the way.
5. When the kids’ electronic toys are banned in the car because of bad behaviour, the parents suffer most.
6. Don’t travel out east for the great weather.
7. You won’t find a guy named Mac selling seafood out of his van off the highway.  In the Maritimes, it actually comes right off the boat.
8. There is a lobster season for every province.  So, if eating lobster is a goal, find out the season dates and travel accordingly.  We missed it in Nova Scotia, but found it in Cape Breton and PEI. 
9. Sure, Maritimers are friendly, but no friendlier than anyone else in Canada.
10. Restaurant food is usually crappier than home made food, and a whole lot pricier – unless you’re ordering fresh seafood in the Maritimes.
11. Kids CAN eat hotdogs every day for two weeks and never get sick of it.
12. Quebec City really does not celebrate Canada Day!  We arrived there on July 1st and were promptly told by the hotel staff that there were no festivities.  So much for our Canada shirts.
13. The least commercial place on the planet has to be Cape Breton.  It’s the best place to embrace the beauty of nature.
14. Canada should do everything they can to protect the livelihood of their Maritime fishermen.
15. Hotels and resorts never provide cutting boards.  Pack a small one on your next road trip.
16. Whether you scream in a whisper or a loud voice (at your kids), you still get a sore throat.
17. The Maritimes isn’t about enjoying luxury accommodations, it’s about appreciating the luxury of nature.
18. Canada is a beautiful country and worth exploring.

 ”When are we going to be there??”

“There will be no more talk about farts, burps, poo, pee or anything else that in any way relates to the toilet,” I lectured the boys.  With my head twisted to face the back of the minivan, I looked each of my sons in the eye to ensure that they knew I meant business. 

“Yes, Mom,” they replied between snickers before I turned my head back to face the front window. 

“Did you hear your mom?” Ted’s voice boomed as he glanced at his rear view mirror.  “No more rude talk.” 

We’d tolerated the constant references to private body parts and their excrements for long enough.  Now that we were heading back to our every day lives, Ted and I wanted a semblance of decorum returned to our family.  Throughout the vacation, their potty jabber replayed like a slew of infomercials.  Irritating, yet surprisingly amusing at times. 

Although I’d just delivered my umpteenth lecture, it seemed to have finally resonated with the boys – at least for the time being.  They settled into quiet activities.  Shortly afterward, we pulled off to an exit to find somewhere to eat.  The stash of prepared foods was dwindling, so we reviewed the usual selection of fast food restaurants that dotted the road trippers’ landscape.  McDonald’s was selected.  Ted and I figured, at the very least, the Happy Meal toys would offer the kids a brief period of pleasure when we returned to the minivan. 

As we entered the restaurant, I reminded the boys to show manners and refrain from the usual gastrointestinal stunts and sounds.  They nodded their heads, stifling giggles.  Ted brought the Happy Meals to the table and, as always, the kids reached first for the toy.  They all received the same thing.  A Shrek figure with a button on its chest that, when pushed, emitted an exclamation “I’m an ogre!” followed by a harrowing belch.  The irony was not lost on any of us.  But the hope of enforcing a toilet talk ban for the remainder of the car ride was lost for good.

Research from the University of Utah has proven that using a cell phone while driving has the same effect as driving impaired at a blood alcohol concentration of .08 percent.  This is troubling, but not all that surprising.  What is shocking, however, is that the study also found little difference in driver performance between those using a hand held cell phone and those using a hands free one.  It would appear that the act of talking is the cause of the distraction, and not so much the device.  Despite this important bit of evidence, many provinces and states have passed legislation banning the use of hand held phones, thereby encouraging hands free talking. 

In Alberta, a new bill was introduced that bans not just hand-held cellphones, but also texting, reading, writing, and personal grooming under threat of a $172 fine in their new Distracted Driving Amendment Act. (Hands-free phones are okay.)  Their motivation is noble, to be sure.  But if the act of talking is, itself, a huge distraction, will this new legislation, if passed really make the roads a whole lot safer?  And I’m not just saying that because I apply lipstick every time I get in the driver’s seat. 

I guess I should just be grateful that no legislator has every sat among my kids during one of our road trips.  Some things he might observe the driver do are:

• Reach a hand back into a cooler for snacks and then toss them backward toward the kids,
• Twist his neck to give the stinker eye to a badly behaved child,
• Engage in lively conversation with spouse seated beside him, which may or may not include heated discussion about the directions,
• Rifle through a stack of DVDs to find Ice Age 3, then open case and provide verbal directions to seven year old on how to work DVD player,
• Rip open a bag of potato chips with his teeth.

There is a very strong likelihood that a bill would soon be introduced that bans kids from sitting in cars.  Hmmm.  Either that, or provide a nanny to keep the kids in order.  Now that’s an idea I could drive with.

But, like the throngs of modern minivan owners, the station wagon was a forced possession that parents of yesteryear felt compelled to own by sheer necessity, rather than desire.  It had, after all, a number of merits that no two-door model could ever compete with.  Although it’s hard for today’s minivan owners to imagine how an oversized buick, with a rear-facing seat instead of trunk, could provide any roadtripping luxuries, they might alter their view if they try to imagine the headspace of a parent in the 1970’s and 80’s. 

While today’s family road warriors rely on built-in video screens, hand-held electronics, and spacious interiors to assuage discomforts, families of the past had something else entirely: freedom.  Seat belts were voluntary (read: unused), kids outgrew car seats before they learned how to walk, and the only law drivers really had to obey was the speed limit.  Undoubtedly, today’s web of rules around car safety has cushioned many children from injury.  But just imagine the possibilities.

During our first couple of drives from Toronto to Florida, we had to make do with the usual passenger set up.  Two kids were stuck facing oncoming traffic in the back seat while other three of us shared the middle row (the sucker in the centre with knees crammed into his chest because of the “bump” upon which his feet had to rest.)  When we got tired of sitting upright, we’d spread out a little more.

“Just lie down,” our parents would advise us (and be quiet, they’d think).  Obediently, we’d reposition ourselves so that two bodies laid head to foot on the middle seat, one sprawled uncomfortably across the dirty carpeted floor, while in the back seat, a body laid on the cushioned seat and another on the floor (thankfully bump-free.)  When the yelling and fighting over who got stuck on the crappy floor bed got too out of hand, Mom or Dad would simply whip a hand to the back and lay a wallop on whomever was closest.  Another freedom of the times – good old fashioned kid-smacking.

One year, they came up with a splendid idea to finally end the sibling friction caused by seat preference.  All the seats behind the driver were folded down so that the entire back of the station wagon was levelled.  Then my parents pulled off a single mattress from my sister’s bed and hauled into the back of the car.  They didn’t want to hear a single complaint about a bump the entire ride to Florida.  And they didn’t.  The wagon raced along the freeways while we repositioned to our hearts’ content.  My brothers got to have wrestling matches, I got to sleep cuddled up in comfort, potato chips were served in one big bowl that we could all eat together (crumbs didn’t bother us so much in those days.)  It was a dream road trip, by any kids’ standard.  And I’m certain the cops we passed along the way – to whom we gestured with the usual peace sign – thought the same thing.  After all, it was a different time.