Blood-curdling screams. Orange cones. A steady diet of disgusting, just-off-the-road meals.
These are just a few of the speed bumps, so to say, on a 20-hour drive from Illinois to Florida. But the wife and I made it, in one piece, along with our 2-year-old son and 1-year-old daughter.
We stopped, of course. A lot. We even stayed overnight in Chattanooga, in a train car modified into a hotel room.
So why would we even take on such a tall task? Why put ourselves through it?
I believe the conversation went like this...
The wife: We should visit your dad.
Me: Flying with two kids? Seems like a lot of work.
The wife: We could drive. That might be easier.
Me: Great! Can I get a lobotomy before we leave?
Against our better judgment, we did it anyway. We packed up our car, and shoved off. I couldn't get the song "Holiday Road" out of my head. You know, the one made famous by the nightmare of all road trips taken by the Griswalds in "Vacation".
My son didn't mind the car ride. My daughter did. I don't know what number was higher-- our miles per hour, or her tears per second. I fed her an alarmingly high number of cookies and other assorted treats. Each one worked, briefly.
Yet here we are. Pulling up to our destination felt like a job well done. Like I just finished building a house, only if the boards wailed every time I drove a nail through them.
So now I can relax. I'm on my vacation, and I don't have to do that again.
Wait, we have to drive home too?? Give me a map. Where's the airport?
