Another Crazy Carlson Road Trip

Friday, March 9th (4:30 pm):
We threw the four kids in the car and drove. We drove and drove. There were rules. No stopping (almost). We synchronized our bladders. Food gets eaten in the car while travelling. Did I mention no stopping? No changing seats. Do your reading. Do more reading. Do your french reading. Play car bingo. Okay, maybe a digital device but for a short time only. First day, only one pit stop. Get gas and do everything all at once. We cross into the Oregon State line. My husband says, "kiss." I lean over and kiss him. This is our tradition. Every new state, new province, new country--we cross the line and kiss. Grateful for another day, another breath, another chance to live, see, explore and be with each other. The 8 year old yells, "gross!" Then he qualifies it, "Only if you kiss him on the lips, it's gross!" "How do you know?" I reply. "Maybe your dad likes it on the lips." The 8 year old is unconvinced. We make it to Albany, Oregon. Unfortunately, the kids wake when we got to the motel and everyone has to eat cereal before bed. Lights out near midnight.
By Mom.

Long And Boring...

Friday, March 9th.

Long. Boring. Very long. Very boring. We left the house at 4:30. I read. Complained. Begged. And so did my siblings. We ate food in the car. The solution: complaining and begging some more. We found a motel at 11. Too late. Way too late. Tired too. Way too tired. This day has certainly been eventful and exciting.

Anticipating tomorrow with much excitement.

Ethan

More driving

Saturday, March 10th:

More driving. Did I mention this was a road trip? Reading. Then their dad makes them watch a movie: The Sound of Music. Groans in the car. No one wants to watch it. Husband chose it because it is a classic AND (he leans over and whispers to me) "it is three hours long." I begin to sing "Doh, a deer, a female deer..." There is loud wailing and nashing of teeth in the back of the car. My vocal talents are under appreciated. They turn the movie on. The car is blessedly quiet. The thirteen hours are long. We make it to a motel outside Bakersfield. They have warning signs about valuables and a security guard roving the premises. I mutter something unappreciative to my husband. We wonder if the three mountain bikes on the back of the van will be there in the morning. He promises the next one will be nicer. I am grateful not to be in a tent.
By Mom.