The Drive Home

Hi friends,

This past weekend I drove to South Dakota to visit my family. I’ve made some version of this trip approximately four times a year for the past 25 years, so at this point I know the drive well.

Since having children, though, leaving has become a challenge. They love it there. Their cousins are there. There’s plenty of dirt and land to play on. And, of course, Grandma and Grandpa give them pretty much whatever they want or desire. So over the past 13 years, I’ve had to develop an exit plan.

At one point, each of my children went through a phase of faking bathroom emergencies just to get me to stop the car and possibly turn around. So when someone says, “I have to pee” or “My stomach hurts,” I don’t necessarily believe them. Otherwise I’d be stopping every five minutes and my five-hour drive would become a ten-hour drive.

My actual exit plan is simple: stop at the gas station on the way out of town, put enough gas in the car to get to the nearest Costco in Colorado (because ethical savings.. yes please), and let the kids choose whatever junk food they think will sustain them for the five-hour drive home.

My youngest chose gum and a root beer and confidently announced that would get her all the way home.

It did not.

We also had the dog. He has terrible car anxiety and needs medication for long drives. Unfortunately, the drugs I keep at my parents’ house were expired. It was also raining when we left, so I loaded a wet, anxious, insufficiently drugged dog into my minivan.

He cried for FOUR HOURS.

It rained most of the way, so we couldn’t even roll down the windows. We just sat together in a slowly intensifying cloud of wet dog.

Then, finally, the expired drugs kicked in. The dog was quiet. We were 30 minutes from home.

And my youngest said, “My stomach hurts.”

Now, please remember: I have been specifically trained by these children not to respond to alleged stomach aches.

“You can make it.”

She could not.

Apparently root beer, gum, exhaustion and four hours of wet-dog aromatherapy have consequences. She barfed all over the car.

I pulled over and cleaned up what I could while her older sister dug around in the back for some new clothes. And by “new,” I mean different dirty clothes.

When I finally got home, I seriously considered driving my ten-year-old minivan directly to the Honda dealership. But I absolutely did not have the patience for a car salesman, so I took an edible and spent the next hour detailing my car.

Will I make this trip again? Most definitely. Will I make the same mistakes? Very likely. This is the life I chose.

But next trip I’m bringing a gallon-sized Ziploc bag.

Apparently some emergencies are real.

— Sheila