Road Trip Ranting

I am a bit tardy in publishing my weekly literary temper tantrum, but I have had a rough week and have a rougher few to come. Most of the turbulence is of my own design, but that in fact is a morbidly bad thing rather than good. You see, when someone else is imposing impossible standards on you, once you meet them, the demands, in theory, will end. (The exception being your mother or your children whose demands are neverending.) When the standards are self-imposed there is no escaping the demons in your brain, at least not without medication and this seems imminent with the insanity invading my every waking moment.

This coming weekend, I am headed on my first vacation since my eight-year-old princess was learning to walk. I used to believe that this lack of recreational escape was entirely economically-based, but I have actually concluded that by spending all of our recreation money on other things, my subconscious mind was reminding me that I hate packing and I especially hate changes in routine. This disgust for the minor hiccups in the mindless monotony of everyday has apparently been passed to my minions and it makes for several weeks of purgatory.

My past month or so, since the revelation that we were dragging all six children on an epic road trip, has been fraught with continuous fighting. I am going to use this moment to educate the populous that there is a difference between the words continuous and continual. Continual means that the activity lasts for a long duration with occasional lapse or pause. Continuous means that it continues for an indescribable and eternal duration with only minor decreases in the intensity of the anger-inducing mania. I quite purposefully used the latter. I am about ready to request refunds for all the tickets we have already purchased and invest in a half dozen straight jackets and ball gags. THEN we can worry about a road trip.

My husband was scandalized that I insisted on investing in an in-car DVD player. “We will just listen to audio books like we planned a month ago, we don't need to watch television the whole vacation.” His two hours of frustration between work and bedtime do not give him the adequate scope of hysteria that has gripped our normally difficult, but now IMPOSSIBLE offspring. I am sure that in our twelve-hour pilgrimage to his homeland, we are going to kneel and praise a higher being several times along the way for the blessed invention of the boob tube, which admitted dumbs the minions down, but puts temporary ceasing to the hostilities.

Additionally, the thought of leaving my home and packing (hopefully) has me trembling with crippling terror. I have a hard enough time getting six kids out the door with the correct ensemble and equipment to go to the gas station, let alone several hundred miles from home.

My girl-minion is the height of femininity. I would have to concentrate quite intensely to achieve the level of sheer glittering, prim divaness that oozes from her very pores. So, I have on several occasions taken her to have her fingernails professionally painted. On this particular occasion, she arrived at the technician's home studio and being so overcome with girly delight threw herself on the couch and flung her legs over her head. Her ruffly skirt gracefully flitted around her hips and revealed a shocking sight. My daughter was as naked as the day she emerged screaming into this world. If I cannot even clad my daughter in quintessential foundation garments for a trip around the block, I feel fairly defeated at the hope that all six minions will be adequately prepared for the jungles of a road trip.

The other thing that terrifies me is that we are visiting my in-laws. Many women have mother-in-laws that resemble villainesses from ancient fairy tales. I have a wonderful mother-in-law that is logical, organized, kind, pleasant, and completely quiet about my shortcomings. This kind of mother-in-law is infinitely worse because it leaves the wife (me) with an unexplained desire to appear infallible and confident, neither of which are adjectives that adequately describe me. When I brought home my first little bundle of joy, my physique and my brain quickly rebounded, but with each subsequent spawn, I have become a drooling, mouth-breathing mound of flab. I just struggle to hide it when in public. But, something about meeting with my dear hubby's parents, leaves me an insecure mess, who can't even dress herself competently in the morning, let alone a flock of little people.

Perhaps this anxiety also stems from the fact that my normally brilliant husband suddenly turns into a four-year-old when we are preparing to leave for something exciting and regresses several more years if his mother is involved. He only packs his most disgusting clothes, his under clothing with the biggest holes directly in the rump, T-shirts with the most offensive sayings that are seconds away from abandoning structural integrity entirely. Then his mother, did I mention she is a really kind and charitable woman, sees fit to shower him with gifts because he is so neglected. It is almost Oliver Twist/Dickensian in it's craftiness. I am not sure if it manipulatively orchestrated, or just a product of my own spousal insecurities, but still.

The cherry on top to our familial trek of terror sundae is going to be a trip to a Disney theme park. Now, being the mother of six HORRIFYINGLY active children comes with a paralyzing fear of going...well, anywhere public. So, knowing that we were scheduled to visit “The Happiest Place on Earth,” I issued a challenge to my young minions, who somehow become sugar-crazed fiends in the face of a retail institution. “This is practice for Disneyland so we can stay together and be safe.” Apparently, in pre-schooler language this means, “We are going to play a sadistic game of hide and seek in every clothing rack, empty shelf, large container, in every institution for the next month and only emerge when mother starts gasping for air and grabbing the left side of her chest while shouting obscenities.” In pre-teen/adolescent speak, the practice for Disneyland translates to, “Find offense in every time that a sibling touches you and then rather than use the diplomacy that has been instilled in you since you began speaking, SHOUT everything emphatically with several ridiculous insults and then grunt like wild swine and fold your arms with a great HARUMPH.” (Insert a high-decibel excuse to justify your behavior here).

Well, motherly whining vented in an anonymous venue. Hopefully, I will emerge rested and refreshed, but I fully anticipate that I am going to return with PTSD and a slight ocular twitch.