The Masochistic Adventure We Call the Family Vacation

The time will soon be upon us when families across America will embark on that masochistic adventure we call, The Family Vacation. I remember one such adventure my family took a few years ago when we lived in Branson, Missouri.

The torment began once our vacation plans were made. I mean complete pandemonium broke out in our household. With the hyper of a sugar a junky turned loose in a candy factory, there was running in all directions, bouncing off walls, jumping on and over the couch, leaping over chairs, all with screams of delight—and the kids were even worse!

Of course sons and I were too hyped up with anticipation of our trip to pack early, so we ended up doing the panic packing thing. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the panic-packing technique, it’s when the packers wait until 10:00 pm (or later) the night before they’re supposed to leave to pack their suitcases.

One of the results of this procrastination is the packers, in their blind panic to get ready for their trip, can’t find half of what they need. So what do they do? The instinctively, and desperately, turn to the matriarch of the family for help. Have you noticed this? Why is this? It’s like we think moms and wives are born with this built in radar ( which, incidentally, kicks in the minute a wedding ban is sipped onto her finger) for finding miscellaneous items that we’re to inept to find for ourselves.

It never fails. Whether it’s packing for a trip, getting ready for school or work, whatever, when somebody can’t find something, the first thing the lady of the house hears is, “Mom, do you know where my ____ [fill in the blank] is?” Or, “Honey, I can’t find my ____.”

So there the boys and I were were, late the night before the trip, frantically scurrying about the house, searching for those elusive can’t-find items we so desperately needed to finish our packing, when a hollering contest soon ensued as we vocally competed for the use of the former Mrs. Bagley’s item finding radar.

Finally, just before she got to the point of pulling her hair out by the fistfuls, she made it very clear (the kids and I had no idea that soft-spoken woman could propel her voice to such deafening decibels) that she was going go bed and under no uncertain terms was she to be disturbed. We were on our own.

Finally, everyone was packed and after a few hours sleep we loaded our vehicle and were ready for our trek to Tullahoma, Tennessee, normally a 9 to 10 hour drive . . . unless, of course, you’re on a family vacation.

Just before everyone headed out the door to get into the car, the children’s mother and I asked the pre-takeoff question that’s been asked since the caveman first discovered vacations, that pre-takeoff question that annoys every child to no end (after all, what do we think they are, children?), “Has everybody used the bathroom before we leave?”

And the boys gave us that pre-takeoff answer that children have been giving their parents since they first discovered the right answer meant leaving sooner, “Yeah!”

“OK then, let’s go!” I excitedly announced. And off we went.

Between the light traffic and my lead foot it appeared we were on track for record breaking travel time. Then, not even forty-five minutes into the trip, from the back of the car came, “Next exit we need to find a rest room. My back teeth are floatin’.” We pulled off the highway and stopped at a restaurant.

Foolishly, I thought we’d just run into the building, use the bathroom, run back out and be on our way. But “Miss Manners” of the world of travel (aka, the boy’s mom) insisted it would be rude to pop into the joint just to use their rest room. We sat up to the counter and ordered what we thought would be quick eats.

See, middle son ordered fries, which of course the place was out of. The waitress assured us to cook up a new batch would only take 5 minutes . . . an hour later we were finally on our way.

Sixty uneventful minutes and, “Keep your feet away from mine!” reverberated from youngest son’s mouth, followed by, “Mom, he’s crowding my side of the seat!”

“Am not!”

“Are too.!”

“Am not!”

And on it went.

That problem solved, harmony once again filter throughout the vehicle, yeah right. A few minutes passed by and the peace was shattered by a barrage of declarations:

“I gotta pee!”

“Dad, I’m thirsty.”

“Mom, I . . .”

ARGH!

And parents enthusiastically repeat this masochistic adventure on an annual basis. There truly must be something wrong with us.