Notes from the Road

To get the most out of our three-day weekend, my wife and I took the kids to Joseph, Oregon to visit with my wife’s folks and play in the snow. That extra day made it the perfect opportunity to make the six and a half hour trek across the state.

The visit was good, the food was excellent, the sledding was fine, there were tree forts to be made, stars to be seen and various “Mr Fix-it” jobs to do, including assembly of a telescope and photographing of antiques to be put up on Ebay.

But it was the trip back that held a lesson I needed to learn (if you’re really a glutton for punishment, you can read about a similar trip we took last August).

Before I begin regaling you with the travelogue, I must describe one episode that occurred during our stay. On the second night, Michael insisted upon sleeping in the big room with his sisters. When I announced this fact to them, I was met with the expected heavy sighs and groans. I tried to be encouraging. “Come on, give him a chance. He knows that he has to stay still and not make a sound, or he’s out of there. Just do what you normally do, and if he misbehaves bring him to our room.” They relented, begrudgingly.

As I put him to bed, I reiterated the rules. He promised to be good.

After I heard Michael’s sisters go to bed, I laid awake for an hour, waiting for the inevitable knock on the door. It never came.

Michael was as good as his word, sleeping soundly all night and not disturbing them in the least.

I was surprised and delighted, pondering that maybe Michael is maturing enough to be better in control of himself.

The next day, after packing and hugs goodbye, we were on our way.

Mile 1: We’re just pulling out of sight of Grandma & Grandpa K’s house, fresh for our journey home. The kids are goofing around and having a good time.

Mile 39: Things are going smoothly. Looking forward to lunch in La Grande. Kids are entertained and enthralled with the scenery, pointing out cows and deer they see.

Mile 63: Before topping off the gas tank, we grab lunch, make an obligatory trip through Wall Mart and get a little coffee to make the trip home a smidge sweeter. The baristas of the Island City, Oregon Starbucks are awestruck by my ability to place an order, and they let me know it. Now, all I did was fire off a list of drinks for the five of us: a grande latte, decaf grande mocha, tall coffee frappuccino, tall mocha frappuccino and a kid’s hot chocolate. When I pulled around to the window, they stood applauding. “That was the most awesome job of ordering!” While I was rendered slightly embarrassed by their admiration, I thought to myself how much I appreciate the small-town attitude. They were friendly and welcoming, got my order right, were considerate enough to cut short the straw for Michael’s drink, and were grateful for our business. I can’t say the same thing for our hometown stores.

Mile 112: Michael won’t go to sleep. He keeps fighting it tooth and nail. He’s tired and should be napping, but is refusing to allow himself to drop off. He insists upon moaning and complaining about it instead. At the last rest stop his mom put a pull-up on him just in case. Did they put caffeine in his hot chocolate?

Mile 146: Have driven for twenty miles with Michael throwing a blood-curdling scream fest. Why? Because I failed to let him throw away his own paper towel after washing his hands in the restroom at the truck stop we just left. Didn’t want him touching anything there; it was gross. Wife stuffs an Oreo into my mouth, knowing it will soothe my nerves from the audible onslaught.

Mile 150: Finally pull over to calm him down. Promise that I would buy him his own roll of paper towels and five wastebaskets to throw them in to, if he’ll just stop screaming. I wonder to myself whether if I’d just let him throw his own paper away, would he have been satisfied? Would he have been calm enough to drift off into a nap? Next time, I’ll keep this in mind.

Mile 202: Michael found a new reason to throw a tantrum, and does so con brio. I don’t even recall why, other than the fact that he was tired.

Mile 250: Wife notices my knuckles turning white, hears the crunch of the steering wheel under my grip, begins feverishly unwrapping and shoving Andes mints into my mouth, hoping to allay my rising stress level at the sound of Michael’s continual complaint. My wife is the best.

Mile 255: Strongly wishing it was legal and safe to drink while driving, because the cookies and chocolate are no longer providing the medicinal value they were before.

Mile 271: Hurricane Michael has ebbed.

Mile 282: Traffic jam. Lane to right is moving quickly, lane to left is moving quickly. My lane is stalled. Wife suggests I change lanes. In true stubborn fashion, I make excuses as to why I cannot.

Mile 285: Finally decide to change to right lane. Breeze past jam, realize then that the jam was in the lane headed toward Seattle; I could have bypassed it half an hour ago.

Mile 322: “Momma!” Michael cries. “I can’t see!” “What’s the matter, sweetie?” his mom asks. “My eyes keep closing!” He’s so tired he doesn’t even know what’s going on. Frustrated and feeling betrayed by his body for failing to remain awake, he threw another tantrum with as much energy as he had left in his body. I think at this point he was running on pure gall.

Finally home: To settle in, and while Daddy unloaded the car of every last bag, boot, sled, crushed water bottle, wrapper, sack and toy, Michael sits with his mom and watches “The Last Mimzy” once more. This was fine – as long as he was good, out of the way and quiet, I was okay with it. It ended just at 8:00, his bedtime. He wanted to watch Wall*E next. “No, Michael. Mommy and Daddy are tired and we want to go to bed too,” his mom said.

As should be expected by this point, Michael took this news by throwing a fit. He wailed loudly throughout tooth-brushing time, which was actually okay with me; it kept his mouth wide open and made my job much easier. Couldn’t hear after that, though.

All done, he sobbed about how he wanted mom to sleep with him. “No,” I said. “You never let her go without having a meltdown.” “I’ll be good!” he said.

Then I remembered what I’d learned earlier: He demonstrated that he is capable of delivering on his end of the bargain. I’d missed an opportunity for him to be successful on the trip, maybe I can give him one now.

“Okay, Michael. Your mom can come up and be with you for ten minutes, then it’s story time and a kiss night-night, and mommy has to go. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said.

And once again, he was as good as his word, and he didn’t throw a fit when it was time for mommy to go.

So because he was good Monday night, he earned upstairs time with mommy on Tuesday night, and behaved himself then as well.

I’m taking this as a good sign. He’s maturing, and learning how to control his own behavior. The clouds are parting.

Maybe by next year he’ll sit still and eat his dinner. With a fork. I can dream.