Road Tales

Not Always A Happy Car Ride

Posted by Roadtrippingma on Jun 20, 2010 in Road Tales | 0 comments

 ”When are we going to be there??”

Bad Food on the Road Can Lead to Bad Manners Too

Posted by Roadtrippingma on Jun 1, 2010 in Road Tales | 0 comments

A few years ago, we were on our way back to Toronto after ten days vacationing in Indian Shores, Florida.  During that time, our kids grew increasingly vulgar as tends to happen when three boys spend uninterrupted leisure time together. 

“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.

Distraction-Free Driving? Not on this Road Trip

Posted by Roadtrippingma on Apr 20, 2010 in Road Tales, Safety | 1 comment

When it comes to keeping the car peaceful during long road trips, the key is in keeping the kids distracted.  The less they notice the slow passage of time, the better.  While this is not so for the driver, distraction-free driving is increasingly challenged by the population of gadgets and gizmos that proliferate in every segment of our lives.  The automobile is no exception to this accumulation of clutter.  The modern person thrives on constant interaction, and what could be less compelling than staring at a dull grey highway for hours on end without interruption?  Today’s cars are equipped with GPS’s, cell phones, make-up bags, iPods, and take-out food.  And although we’ve driven under the influence of distraction for decades (my mom and dad used to drive holding a ceramic mug filled with scalding coffee), it’s the cell phone that has brought it all to a screeching halt. 

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.

Road Trip Comforts in a 1979 Station Wagon

Posted by Roadtrippingma on Mar 31, 2010 in Packing the car, Road Tales | 2 comments

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.

Hotel Room a Tight Squeeze for a Family of Five

Posted by Roadtrippingma on Mar 17, 2010 in Road Tales | 0 comments

My kids are getting bigger.  Normally, that statement breezes past my lips (or through my fingertips) with a sigh of relief.  Aaaaaaah.  No diapers to change, no portable crib to unload, no contortionist-like reach into the recesses of the minivan to buckle in each child.  My kids have, in fact, become quite self-sufficient in many ways.  But still, they’re kids.  When we travel, they come with us.  And, when we stay in a hotel, we book only one room.   

While we no longer have to traverse around a mini nursery that we assemble like Ikea furniture in our hotel room for the baby of the family, the boys’ larger bodies more than make up for the freed up floor space.  A crying baby is loud, but not quite as loud as three boys playing hide and seek between the beds.  But what’s a family of five to do?  Hotel rooms are built for a maximum of four bodies.  Of course, we always book a room with two queen size beds.  If we’re lucky the mattresses are, in fact, queen, and not the imposter “double” size.  Yet our bodies, spreading across the mattresses like continents on a map, are growing unwieldy. 

An adult sharing a large bed with two toddlers can still stretch out with relative comfort (assuming bony elbows and knees are of sufficient distance.)  But our oldest son is now almost ten, the other two not far behind in age.  We’ve come to accept that sleep is a five-star luxury that a growing family of five simply cannot afford.  

We recently stayed in Ellicottville, New York in a fantastic hotel called Holiday Valley Inn.  We could have ensured two nights of incessant snoring pleasure if we’d booked a second room, thus allowing my husband and I to horde as much bed space as we desired.  But at $200 a night per room, we were content to ski with the reckless abandon of overtired parents trying to keep up with our even more reckless kids.  We have helmets, after all.  May as well use them.

Being in such tight quarters, some can argue, offers a rare opportunity for familial bonding.  This is true.  However, it also means that those irritating habits that you thought you could escape during vacation (think toilet talk, whining, picky eaters), tend to be just as prominent in your new oasis of pleasure as they were in your suburban house.  Our youngest son, for example, pees his bed regularly.

At five-thirty in the morning (shortly after I’d finally fallen asleep) I woke to my five year old son staring at me.  His little hands pushing me away from him and towards my edge of the mattress. 

“Move,” he demanded, “Move away, Mom.  Move away.”

“What?” I whispered back.  About to lecture him about his need to show more respect to his mother, I suddenly bit my tongue.  There was only one reason that he ever woke me in the early dawn.

“Did you pee the bed?”

He nodded nonchalantly, ”Yeah.”

There aren’t many options when one out of two beds is eliminated from a room filled with five tired people.  It wasn’t long before the entire family was awake.  After all, five year-olds aren’t known for their stealth.  If it was any other family, perhaps they would have used these early hours of dawn to bond with one another over a game of charades.  But that was out of the question for our family.  The kids grew restless in about ten minutes and one of them poked another in the cheek – the equivalent of lighting a firecracker on July 1st, in our household.  Needless to say, we knew after those first few hours of the morning, the nice, quiet guests in our neigbouring rooms would not be looking for any opportunities to bond with us either.

Lessons learned:

1. If your child pees at home – pack a plastic sheet to go under him on the hotel bed.  This is especially important for the parent who plans to sleep beside the urinating child.
2. If you forget the plastic sheet, wake the offending child before pre-dawn and force him or her to the bathroom to relieve the bladder.  While this will disrupt your own sleep, it is a small price to pay for the benefit of every family member’s sanity later.
3. Really loud whispers that sound more like growls can be heard through hotel walls.  So, if you cannot avoid lecturing the kids, definitely avoid all eye-contact with your hotel room neigbours.

Pack the Anti-Nausea Medicine

Posted by Roadtrippingma on Mar 8, 2010 in Road Tales | 0 comments

If you think you might need it.  Pack it.  I learned that the hard way.  Five years ago, when my kids were one, three, and five years old, we planned our first road trip to Florida from Toronto. 

The night before setting out, I organized our medicine kit:   Children’s Tylenol, thermometers, Benadryl, measuring cups, and super strength aspirin (for me.)  I picked up the box of children’s anti-nausea medication, Gravol, and stared at it for some time. 

 “Do you think I should bring this?” I asked Ted, lifting the box for him to see.

 He shrugged.  “Sure.  Why not?”

Why not?  I knew why not.  I’d heard the whispers among moms and dads, their uncomfortable laughs when they admitted in hushed tones that they’d slipped their crying toddlers Gravol to make the transit from one place to another more enjoyable.  Hey, they’d said, it’s no big deal.  They’d laughed, nudged one another in the ribs, we had a great ride, eh?  

I’d force myself to laugh along, then chastise them behind their backs.  Shame on them, I’d thought.  Drugging your children for some peace and quiet.  Shame.

I now stood at a cusp, holding the fruit of promised tranquility in my hand in the form of a barely used box of small pink tablets.  I knew I’d have to endure crying, whining, fighting, and yelling (my own would be the loudest.)  The temptation to administer these happy pills might be too much to resist, I’d figured.  And my kids rarely suffered nausea at home.  So I returned the medicine to the cupboard and shut the door.  I’d have been wise to consider that my kids may actually need it for nausea.  Strangely, that thought never entered my head.  Shame on me.

The early part of the drive was through Pennsylvania – a state of undulating roads carved across a vista of mountains.  Peter, it turns out, suffers motion sickness.  I never knew that.  And being the quiet three year old that he was, he preferred not to alarm us with dire warnings of an expulsion of his most recently consumed food. 

We’d simply turn around to see him soaking under a bib of vomit.  Over and over and over again. 

After the first vomit, we quickly found a place to stop and replaced his wet pyjamas with a fresh set of clothes that we’d packed in the kids’ knapsacks.  We’d planned to change them anyway, so it wasn’t that big of a deal.  With no medicine to give him, Ted and I offered Peter a grocery bag.  He could barely keep it open with is tiny fingers, but it was all we could do. 

Less than two hours later, we turned around as our oldest son exclaimed, “Peter’s barfing again!” 

By the time we begged him to grab the bag, it was too late.  He was soaked again.  With less rush, this time, we eventually stopped off the freeway.  The boys’ remaining clothes were tucked inside a suitcase atop the car in a roof rack carrier.  After ten minutes of unlocking, unloading, and rifling through luggage, some clothes were found and Peter was hastily changed with kind reminders to please, tell Mom and Dad when you feel sick BEFORE you vomit.

I’d like to say the rest of the drive was uneventful.  We were, after all, trying to “make good time” (my husband’s road trip mantra.)  And, no amount of vomit, nor its putrid odour, was going to stop us from attaining our planned mileage.  The vomiting grew so frequent, however, that we’d stopped changing him.  We simply would re-position the blanket under his chin.  By the time we’d stopped at the hotel, thirteen hours after his first expulsion, Peter was so soaked, he shivered as he walked from the car to the hotel room – his wet shirt flat across his chest like a fried egg on a pan. 

I spent the evening in the hotel room scrubbing his bile covered car seat with the hotel’s bath soap.  If only I’d packed the Gravol.