A few years ago, I decided it was time to share with my five kids the wonders of the good ol’ US of A. There could be no better means to achieve this goal than camping. Not being one to do things half heartedly, I meticulously planned three weeks of Wild West immersion. I pictured us singing beside the campfire, fishing in clear streams and effortlessly scaling mountain peaks. My children would see their mom with new, adoring, eyes. It would be a memorable time.
Of course, this was met with equal enthusiasm on the part of my family.
From my mother, “Are you insane? Three weeks in the car with those kids?”
My oldest daughter’s response, “Camping? I’m not going if there’s no way to check my email. I do have a life, you know.”
The only male in the family, my son, informed me in a straightforward fashion that we were “doomed”.
Our budding puberty queen, the middle child, verbalized deep concern about the effects of dry heat on her hair.
Simultaneously a vicious battle erupted between the youngest two over seating arrangements in the vehicle.
It was shaping up to be the trip of a lifetime.
Finally, the big day arrived. The kids had rallied a bit. After stuffing the minivan beyond capacity we rolled out, complete with enough books to rival the Library of Congress, a plethora of Barbies and matching trousseau, and more hair care products than a salon warehouse. One of the youngest was going through a strange spell of attachment to a red rocking chair and would not be parted without “Red Chairy.” It too was wedged in amidst the crayons, markers, glue, coloring books and make-up. I am certain there was an illegal alien aboard as well, though I could never discern him from zoo of stuffed animals we were hauling.
My son was the only one who packed light. His bag for an entire twenty one days consisted of a single pair of underwear, some out of state fireworks, and a machete.
Twenty minutes into the trip, my nine year old, who was born with a strange debilitating disease, known as, “Gerbil-sized-bladder,” began fidgeting. It is a fact that children afflicted with this disorder are predisposed to attacks when you’ve just passed the last restroom for 700 miles.
Meanwhile, I had positioned my oldest shotgun so we could bond.
Here is a sample of that stimulating conversation:
Me: “I guess you must really be excited about being a senior in high school this year?
Her: “Uh, huh.”
Me: “I remember all the fun times I had in high school, the proms, the parties and my first boyfriend.”
Her: “Uh, huh.”
Me: “So, has your class decided where the senior trip will be?
Her: (Long pause), “Yeah.”
Me: (Getting excited, because the conversation was really warming up) “Where is it going to be?”
Her: “I dunno, I forgot.”
After an hour of this stimulating bonding we were both worn out from the mutual exchange. Slipping headphones on, she retreated into another time zone. The only evidence of life, was an occasional head bobbing. At least I didn’t have to check for a pulse while driving.
From the back seat, middle child aka “PMS Queen” let out a blood curdling scream, pointing at Gerbil-sized-bladder girl, “She is BREATHING on me. Tell her to stop breathing!”
As any loving parent would do, I threatened to secure the next violent offender to the roof.
Here are a few highlights from our trip journal:
Day One: Camp in Sierras. Burnt eyebrows in attempt to light fire. One hour to unbury tent, another hour to set up. Children catch scorpions with sticks. Find escapee scorpion in tent later. Spend rest of night in van.
Day Two: Painted Desert, Arizona. Set up tent. Learn fires are prohibited. Eat hearty dinner of cold beans. Listen to son singing, “Beans, beans, the magical fruit” while expelling wind. Collective vote sends him to van to sleep.
Days Four-Five: Grand Canyon. Children discover primitive restroom is smelly hole in ground. Even Gerbil-sized-bladder bans use. No electricity means no hair appliances. Girls threaten mutiny. Son pleased with not showering.
Days Six-Seven: Sedona, Arizona. Girls impressed with natural beauty of hot guys at Slide Rock, while their brother contends swimming is suitable replacement for bathing.
Day Eight: Wear set of brakes out on mountain. Spend day in dirty garage with ancient, drunken mechanic. Gerbil-sized-bladder pleased with proximity to restrooms.
Day Twelve: See Hoover Dam. Two children cry upon discovering beavers did not build dam.
Day Thirteen: Death Valley, California. 125 degrees. Hottest place on planet. Youngest daughter vomits all over brother and Red Chairy while car is overheating.
Day Fourteen: Earthquake closes main road to Sequoia National Park. Listen to locals’ advice and take winding mountainous one lane road. Have mental breakdown upon discovery hair pin turns and sharp turns are nerve wracking in van with hostile kids. Get off mountain road. Buy postcards of Sequoias at gas station as substitute for visit.
Days Fifteen-Eighteen: Yosemite. Consider giving park bears the children. Daughter finds large carnivorous pet pincher beetle. Son is threatened by family to shower or be smothered in sleep. Take arduous climb up mountain to see famous waterfall. Discover famous waterfall is dried up due to drought. Fight urge to throw self off famous dried up waterfall.
Days Twenty-Twenty One: Most of family gets stomach flu. Use Linda Blair voice to manage fights in vehicle. Contemplate robbing pharmacy for anti-psychotic meds. Pass shots of Benadryl around to soothe children. Chug rest of bottle. Screech tires into driveway. Kiss ground. Find pet carnivorous pincher beetle committed suicide under car seat. Identify with beetle. Discover, like Dorothy, there’s no place like home.
