To Grandmother’s House We Go
Have you ever seen one of those cheesy Hallmark holiday movies? You know the ones I am talking about. The main characters conquer sleet, rain, fog and snow and after a 20-hour excursion, arrive just in time for holiday dinner. When granny and gramps open their door our loving traveling family is standing there; not a hair out of place, clothes completely ironed, perfect smiles on their faces, presenting exquisitely hand-wrapped gifts. Hugs are exchanged, mugs of warm apple cider are raised, a hearty meal is eaten and then they all gather around the piano and burst into song.
Then there is real life. Here’s my version. Grandma and grandpa open the door and a child races past them screaming, “Gotta go, gotta go,” our clothes look like we slept in them … oh wait we did sleep in them, and cheese puff stained hands hold presents with holes in the wrapping paper where someone just had to take a look to make sure it wasn’t really for them.
Ahh … going home for the holidays! My husband and I were born and raised in Miami. We long for the sun, surf and sand; especially come December. Perhaps it is the cold that freezes our memory, or maybe we are optimists or more likely we are just gluttons for punishment … but every year we schlep the kids, presents and just about everything but the kitchen sink into the car and make like a flock of geese and head south.
I always think I am prepared. Separate portable DVD players so there are no fights over what movie to watch. New drawing pads and pencils for my daughter and special edition comic books for my son are carefully placed in the seat pockets in front of them as a special
surprise. Snacks and drinks are within reach so that we don’t have to stop. In retrospect perhaps that last one was not such a good idea.
Yes people … what goes in must come out. And for my son, that means leaving his mark in every state we travel through. Oh heck, who am I kidding … the kid has a bladder the size of a peanut. Take our last trip back home as an example.
We were stuck in I-95 gridlock. Hubby was tired and cranky but refused to pull over. He had the whole Smokey and the Bandit thing going on and did not want to burn any daylight. In fact, I think he was humming the theme song, “There is a long road ahead and a short time to get there,” but that’s beside the point. Finally, after what had to be at least 20 minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic, we began to move. Slowly the speedometer began to rise. With each increase in acceleration an actual smile began to form on my husband’s face. 35, 45, 55, 65 and then, “Dad I need to pee!”
I have always heard the term hissy fit but never really knew what one looked like until that day. My husband’s face went red and a huge vein on his forehead threatened to pop. I was sure he had finally lost his marbles when he pulled over at a rest stop and demanded that we all get out. “No one is allowed back into this car until you are certain that you have squeezed every last drop out!” he bellowed. We did not stop to collect $200 we quickly passed GO and well, we all went!
Freshly squeezed like ripe Florida oranges, we all piled back into the car. For 15 whole minutes all was wonderful in the world. Then my daughter announced in the sweetest voice you ever heard, “Sorry daddy but I guess I did not squeeze so well. I gotta go!”
After years of making this yearly pilgrimage to see our families I have come to some conclusions. The first is that I need to start traveling with an empty water bottle. Second, perhaps air travel is worth looking into. And lastly, road trips with kids are a lot like childbirth amnesia. By the time you remember just how bad it really is, it’s too late to ask for the epidural!
Sharon Fuentes is a mom and writer. Read her blog at www.blog.mamasturnnow.com.
