Dysfunctional Day-Trippers Are We

It was a glorious Sunday afternoon in summer, the air lively with birdsong and laughter, honey sunlight landing warm upon our cheeks. Then Marilyn suggested that we take the kids for a drive.

Which ruined everything.

One does not do things spontaneously with children.

The very phrase is an oxymoron, as in, “Let’s do something ‘fun’ with the in-laws!”

It is difficult enough simply to gather several children in the same place at the same time. After that, you must induce them to wash and dress, stop asking questions, leave your sister alone, don’t you have any clean pants? would you please hurry up? This, while also trying to pack a lunch and fix the baby’s diaper bag.

You think Eisenhower did a good job planning D-Day? Big deal. Let’s see him plan a family outing. Even better, let’s see him do one on the spur of the moment. Veteran parents know better than to try. Except that once in a while, like Marilyn, we forget.

The problem, of course, is hope. All that “springing eternal” business. You delude yourself with visions of family bonding, convince yourself that this time will be different from the half dozen others that preceded it.

I hate hope. And I miss spontaneity. Indeed, of all the things you lose when you spawn a brood, I miss it the most. Once upon a time, we took a notion to do something and we did it.

Want to go for a drive in the country? Bam, you’re driving in the country.

But having children changes things.

Now it’s: Want to go for a drive in the country? Bam, you’re making sandwiches.

Or, bam, you’re looking for the baby’s favorite toy. Or, bam, you’re arguing with the 15-year-old, telling him for the umpteenth time that, no, he can’t just stay home because he is still a member of this family, and he will darn well act like one and suffer with the rest of us.

Bam.

These things used to bother me. I used to pace and cry and bang my head on the fender wondering why we couldn’t just go.

But I feel much better since I lost all hope.

So, as Marilyn was in the house preparing lunches and yelling at slow-moving kids and remembering, all of a sudden, why we don’t do things like this anymore, I assumed my assigned position behind the steering wheel. Opened up the newspaper and waited.

Eventually, the kids started drifting out to the car. But this, of course, was just to tease the old man. Get three of them together and suddenly one realizes she has to use the bathroom. As she’s coming back, the other remembers something vital he left inside. Just as he returns, the 15-year-old decides he’d better go get some comic books out of his room so he won’t accidentally see some scenery while we’re driving.

Finally Marilyn comes out, bearing lunches and diaper bag and spare blanket and heaven only knows what else, and the storage area in back is piled high with provisions for what was supposed to be a “spur of the moment” adventure, and we close the car door and back up two whole feet. And then slam the brakes because, naturally, someone has forgotten something inside the house.

Know how long it took, from the time my wife had this crazy idea to the time we actually hit the road?

Two and one half hours. An hour after that, we’re lost somewhere and I’m beginning to think that maybe it is worth all the aggravation just to do something as a family for a change. We are a carload of explorers, driving under canopies of trees, past the foaming blue ocean, down narrow country lanes that wind toward unknown destinations.

Then we stop for lunch and the 15-year-old says, “You mean we drove all this way just to eat sandwiches?”

Bam.

No, I didn’t hit him. That was just my head on the fender again.

xxxx