Every December, my husband and I make the 719-mile drive from our home to the farm where I grew up. When we were newly married, it was an enjoyable road trip, powered by gas station coffee and Slim Jims. We motored through the night on Interstate 10 and arrived like Christmas zombies at my parents’ front door.
Over a decade of driving halfway across the country, I’ve established three Road Rules: Stop when we’re not having fun; remember we love each other; and breathe.
The Road Rules are even more important now that we’ve added two daughters to our little family. With each child, the distance between San Antonio and Atmore, Ala., grew longer.
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Children are magical on road trips. They have the power to alter space and time, transforming a predictable 12-hour drive into a 16-hour mystery tour. Their tiny clothes take up very little luggage space, but their accouterments are massive and expansive, filling every gap in my station wagon. They each bring along no fewer than 1,000 tiny plastic animals, cars and bricks, all of which are indispensable and must be within reach.
We wake before the sun and buckle the pajama-clad girls in their car seats with fuzzy blankets and critter neck pillows. They could go back to sleep for a few hours, but instead they are agog at the rare sight of our city at night. We head east, and the city lights fall behind us as the sun rises over great Texas pastures.
“Are we in Alabama?” my oldest asks just outside of San Antonio. “This looks like Alabama.”
In the early morning, we are all optimism and anticipation, emitting a trail of rainbows and glitter down the highway. Walk into a gas station with two cute kids and people are suddenly a little nicer. The stir-crazy little ones run up and down aisles asking for popcorn and chocolate milk, and people grin. They’ve been there, dragging excited children past the toy traps for a potty break.
Houston is where road trip optimism goes to die. After four hours in the car, the kids are getting bored. I am grinding my teeth. My husband’s primary job is preventing meltdowns by passing out electronic devices and sugary snacks.
It is grueling, but much the way the moon pulls the tide, the immense gravity of Gran and Pawpaw’s house pulls us across Texas through Louisiana.
We buy scratch-off lottery tickets every time we stop for gas. Losing tickets mean good travel luck, so I celebrate every dud. One year I had a startling run of winning lottery tickets before we learned my daughter was prone to carsickness. In bumper-to-bumper traffic. In the rain. In a stretch of Louisiana swamp called the Atchafalaya Basin. An 18-mile bridge spans the basin, and there is one rest stop. I washed puke out of my child’s hair in that freezing rest stop with no paper towels. We all cried. Now I cross myself every time we enter and leave the Atchafalaya Basin, saying, “Devil, get thee behind me.”
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I steel myself to battle the devil swamp, but there are some battles I won’t pick on our holiday trip. I won’t argue with a 5-year-old about getting two Happy Meals in one day. She eats zero bites of McNugget before I just let her have the toy. Are we alive and moving east? Carry on.
The “Are we there yet?” stage starts around hour 14. I’m annoyed. Silently, I tell myself to breathe. Audibly, I ask my daughter: “Did we stop the car? Do you see Gran and Pawpaw? Ask me again when you see Gran and Pawpaw.” She asks at three-minute intervals for the next two hours.
I have never considered skipping the trip, because magic happens in the week that we are “home” in Alabama, as if we are unlocking achievements in the video game of life. I melt into the warm security that only comes with knowing I’ll be utterly taken care of. We are safe, we are home. My husband sets up camp in a recliner and reads from sun up to sundown. My mom is cooking or playing with the kids until she finds herself seated for more than a minute and then jumps up to cook or play with someone. My dad is hidden away making gifts until Christmas Eve, when he recruits someone (me) to wrap for him.
The cows are calving and must be monitored six or more times a day by every curious grandparent, child and dog in the family.
The kitchen counters are stacked with homemade candy from neighbors and homemade cookies to deliver to neighbors.
The back door creaks and slams, creaks and slams, as kids and dogs are constantly on their way in or out on important business, like getting a cookie or going to swing on the “big swing.”
My little girls vibrate with excitement as the house turns into a roaring pile of cousins at dinner time. They enjoy the freedom of being in the country, and I enjoy the freedom of knowing other adult eyes will be watching out for them.
After visiting for a week or two, we end the year sated, rested and ready to be reborn into a new year.
We load up the car and head west into the setting sun. We name the liquid colors of light ahead until everything is navy blue shadow and yellow headlights. The kids finally sleep.
I ask my husband, “How are you doing?” which is shorthand for “Are you staying awake? Are you annoyed? Do you need a break?” I remind him we can always stop at a hotel and drive the rest of the way tomorrow. He would prefer to endure the last few hours and wake up to a new day at home. If no one is crying, I agree.
Why do I even still call it a 12-hour road trip? We stop every two hours for a minimum of 30 minutes and sometimes don’t even arrive on the same day we left! I think it’s a psychological trick to box this fantastical and fearsome drive into something my mind can manage. I can handle 12 hours.
It will be a long time before we can get from Texas to Alabama in 12 hours again. The next time might be more than a decade from now — when the girls will take turns driving, speeding through the night while their dad and I hold hands and doze in the back seat. I imagine they will smile at how cute we are.
Anna Lee Beyer writes about parenting, health, and books. She lives in San Antonio, TX, with two luminescent daughters and a patient husband. Read more at http://www.annaleebeyer.com .