Over the River and Through the Woods

 

Over The River and Through the Woods

A letter to my son on road trip etiquette for the holidays  

I must give you props, big man. You’ve been so well behaved during our long holiday road trips that I no longer feel a year of my life being shaved off with every hour that passes. I can’t tell you much this boosts morale. Without you carrying on like a banshee in the backseat, thrashing, sweating, screaming, and chucking hard plastic objects at the driver (me), everything seems manageable.  As we approach this holiday travel season, which we're all very much looking forward to, I must remind you of a cautionary tale from your past.  As this took place a whole entire YEAR ago, you have no doubt erased it from your memory.  I have not.  It has to do with some simple dietary restrictions that might save you and your family a lot of trouble.  You see, on our last Christmas road trip to see Gran and Gramps, you begged for, and subsequently received, McDonalds.  Does that ring any holiday bells?  No?  Well, then…

Here’s what happened:

You were being the perfect road trip companion, bopping around in your car seat playing air guitar and filling out your sticker books. Your little brother, on the other hand, was very fussy, as he is not a fan of long car rides. He cried and screamed due to boredom and his uncomfortably sweaty seating arrangement.  Like a caring older brother, you tried to calm him down by singing him Christmas songs.  When that didn’t work (he was very irritated and insulted that you thought the gift of music would somehow rescue him from his car seat prison and fill him full of snacks), you basically shrugged him off and kept jamming to the Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas CD, which we played on repeat for roughly three months that year. You weren’t going to let him rain on your holiday parade.

Your brother's crying got to the point where we decided that an early dinner was in order, so we pulled off of the highway in the middle of nowhere. You really don’t care for chicken nuggets or burgers (even though you say you like them…what’s up with that?), but you always want to go to McDonalds anyway.  Our options were limited; it was either McDonalds, garbage off-brand pastries from a vending machine, or gas station brand beef jerky, which seemed to be procured and packaged by the owner himself.  With that in mind, we ordered a smorgasbord of tasty McDonalds treats: a mango-pineapple smoothie, a yogurt parfait, apples, milk and fries for you and your brother to share. You were both VERY happy as we got back on the road, singing songs in an imitation Chipmunk falsetto and stuffing your faces with a road trip dinner of treats.

About a half an hour passed and your brother was finally content, starring out the window, drowsy and full of Mickey D’s, muttering gibberish to himself. You, on the other hand, got very quiet and pale. At first I didn’t notice, but then I saw you in the rearview mirror looking like a man about to erupt.  I thought of the pie eating contest in Stand By Me.  Your mother and I got more and more concerned as the color in your face drained away completely and your eyes got droopy. We tried to get you to talk to us, which probably drove you nuts because we now realize you were trying your best to calm down your belly. As you were attempting to relax and control your breathing, Mom and I kept shouting, “Buddy? Hey, man? Are you ok? Talk to us, dude. What’s WRONG, honey?” and blah blah blah like a couple of clueless, no-filter helicopter parents.  So annoying!  It was enough to make a guy want to barf. So, that's exactly what you did.

Mommy, the MacGyver of defusing backseat crisis situations, was so impressively quick to grab the first thing she could find just before you tossed your cookies. As you lurched forward, she snagged the green St. Patrick’s Day baseball cap you wear everyday (and would even wear to bed if we didn’t pry it off of your head each night) and you proceeded to fill it with regurgitated McDonalds and God knows what else. It was quite the catch. Your little brother looked on, unimpressed and on the verge of falling into a Ronald McDonald-induced comma-like snooze.

Luckily, we were near an exit, and I immediately got off the road and into a Denny’s parking lot.  I was shocked to see that this exit was McDonalds free, but I noticed one under construction.  I got out of the car and ran over to retrieve you and your hat full of barf, expecting the worst. Mom had managed to catch almost all of it, but the holes in the top of the hat started to act like a noodle strainer and I had to remove it as quickly as possible, grabbing an Elmo diaper from the bag on the floor to act as a buffer. We got you out of the car and down to your skivvies to change clothes. All the while, your brother remained calm in his car seat, taking in the whole scene like a mildly curious pedestrian witnessing the aftermath of a fender bender. As you stood there in the Denny’s parking lot wearing only your Batman underwear and Velcro shoes, you began to realize that your hat may have been ruined and you got a bit upset. Honestly, I just figured we would have to throw it away. It goes on your head, you know. I said, “I know it’s a bummer, but I bet Santa will bring you a new hat, an even better one.” This did not prompt a smile. All you kept saying was, “My hat, my hat…” in a lethargic whisper.

Well, what was I to do? While Mom cleaned you up and fished you out some clean clothes from the over packed trunk, I made a promise to try and bring your hat back from the dead. I grabbed the soiled hat and clothes and headed into Denny’s. It was a pretty busy night. Families were waiting near the hostess stand to be seated as I waltzed in cradling your puke covered belongings. A waitress behind the counter noticed me right away. “Can I help…” is all she got out before I asked, “Would you happen to have a plastic bag?” She was totally unfazed by the request and handed me a large plastic carry out bag with handles. “Restrooms that way” she said with a wink. I thanked her and realized that I’m probably not the first person to visit Denny’s with this predicament on their hands.

I began to rinse out all of your stuff in the Denny’s men’s room sink, which, by the way, was not necessarily an award winner for “Most Pristine and Cleanly Porcelain – Midwestern Division”. It would have to do if the hat were to survive. This was triage.  After about five minutes of scrubbing, the sink began to back up and I had to get paper towels to clear the drain. I was getting water all over the counter, myself and the floor, but I was determined to make the rescue. A 400 pound trucker rocking an Alice Cooper t-shirt waddled through the door as I began round two of Operation Baseball Hat Resuscitation. He pretended like I wasn’t there scrubbing a little kids shorts and baseball hat in the sink, and left without even considering washing his hands. He probably had one of those cute little travel-size hand sanitizers on his key chain, I imagine, because everyone should clean their hands after using the potty (right, buddy?).

At any rate, I think I did a pretty good job. I rung the water out of everything, secured the items in the Denny’s bag, and high tailed it out of there. When I got back to the car you and your brother were hanging out on a grassy hill with mom and things seemed to be pretty normal. You stood there, watching wearily as your brother attempted to put everything on the ground into his mouth (rocks, cigarette butts, candy wrappers, you name it). Mom went back to the car to get things in order as the three of us boys took a stroll along the weird berm of patchy grass that separated the parking lot from a creepy looking forest/drainage ditch that I’m quite sure has been used to stash would-be crime scene evidence. I suggested we sing a song to brighten the mood.  I kicked into an upbeat version of “If You’re Happy and You Know It (Clap Your Hands)” and you looked at me like I was the biggest moron on the face of the planet. Your face said, “Uh, hey Dad? I just barfed up a lung and you want me to jump up and down and clap my hands? Think about it…” I took the hint and suggested we head back to the car.  As I hummed a sarcastic version of Over the River and Through the Woods, we hit the road, once again, en route to Grandmother’s house.

You’re a car sickness sufferer, just like your old man used to be when he was a kid. I eventually got over it, and so will you. I’m thinking that, going forward, it would be in everyone’s best interest if we take a break or two on long car rides. Shaving a half an hour off of the trip just isn’t worth it, especially if we’re spending an hour cleaning clothes in the Denny’s bathroom. Also, let’s pack some healthy snacks as opposed to having a dollar menu meal every time we’re traveling.  Why I’m telling you this, I have no idea.  You have little say in the matter as you cannot feed yourself, nor can you drive.  You’re broke and unlicensed, so this is on me.  Just know that I’m doing my best to make this year’s Christmas road trip a better one than the last.  Oh, and for the record, you never wore that St. Patty’s Day baseball cap again.  I threw it away at Grandma’s house, at her insistence, and she bought you a new one.  Merry Christmas.