Summer’s here, and it seems that despite inflated gas prices, we’re hitting the road. We’re hitting the road and staying on it for long distances, so, to keep from hitting each other (and leaving someone by the side of the road), I’ve perfected the science of keeping my family “friends” in the car. My techniques were tested in the field, or rather on the road, this past weekend when my family of four—including an oft-bored ten-year-old and an oft-annoying four-year-old—drove from New York to Virginia and back and spent much of the trip not moving—but also not hitting each other—on I-95.
Attack Snacks.
Sometimes you need food for thought, and sometimes you need food to avoid thought, so I always pack snacks for a road trip—lots of snacks. The first few hours, I’m energetic enough to push the healthy stuff my husband packed, like water, organic veggie and fruit snacks, and soy chips. But when the traffic slows down and the whining speeds up, I throw my healthy husband the whites of my eyes, as if to say, “What good is our health now?” or, “The pesticide-laced carrots might have been a better choice.” (Sometimes I say this out loud so that everyone in the car can feel the wrath of Mad Mom: The Road Warrior.)
In times of congestion, I consider my family’s head health over its heart health, and I reach for my stash of secret snacks to sweeten the ride and the mood: I dole out Smarties (Irish M&M’s, but better); Sour Patch Kids (they can torture their taste buds, not each other); Twizzlers (I use the kind you unwind so it’s kind of, ahem, like arts and crafts); and Pringles (“once you pop you can’t stop” still holds true, so a small tin will buy you about fifteen minutes to get out of traffic). When all else fails, I’ll tap my super-secret (supposed-to-be-just-for-me) supply of brownies and hope for sugar comas.
Play DJ.
Prolonged confinement in a crawling vehicle can lead to serious numb-bum and a trancelike compulsion to stare down the nose-pickers in other lanes. I, like Paris, found God—my iGod. Before seeing the light, I had leaned on my amped-up iPod to simply drown out the cries for justice and mercy from the backseat, but both noises had the same ear-ringing result (and the vibrations seemed to bother the nose-pickers in the right lane). Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention, so this mother got creative.
First, we took turns playing DJ. We each got to pick a song, any song at all, regardless (or regardful) of how irritating it might be to a copassenger. Our ten-year-old took the opportunity to share his wide-ranging musical interests, from AC/DC to Zeppelin, with a little Red Hot Chili Peppers thrown in for flavor. Our four-year-old took the chance to listen to his favorite “Happy Feet” songs, over and over and over again. And then one more time after that. This game was honestly miles of fun.
When I noticed party interests waning and my husband casting pained glances at the cars speeding by in the HOV lane we should have taken, I mixed things up a bit, as any good DJ would. I ripped out a game of “Speed It Up:” I searched for movement-themed songs on my iGod, rolled down the windows, and pumped up the volume, and we all sang ourselves—really loudly—out of traffic.
Queen was especially popular, with curtain calls for “Don’t Stop Me now, we’re having such a good time, we’re having a ball … ,” “Bicycle! Bicycle! I Want to Ride My Bicycle … ,” and even “Fat-Bottom Girls, You Make the Rockin’ World Go Round!” We felt—for sure—that we were going to leapfrog all the other vehicles in our path. We crooned High School: The Musical’s “We’re Breaking Free” (thanks to my son’s graduation mix), boogied to traffic-trashing classics like “Hit the Road, Jack,” and “Get Up Offa That Thing,” and sang away the hours with the Proclaimers’ “I’m on My Way,” Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” the Beatles’ “Drive My Car,” and David Gray’s “Sail Away With Me Honey.”
