I’ve just returned home from a 10-day road trip with my husband and our two preschoolers. In that time, we traversed more than 1,800 miles and spent over 30 hours in a minivan as we covered three states – spending most of our time in Montana for visits with 29 people from both my adoptive and birth families, plus dear friends.

I prepared with maps, guides, and even a TripTik from AAA, but the journey was still like driving through a maze. From a geographical standpoint, it was Easy Street. I knew exactly where we were headed and how to get there. But enduring a road trip of this magnitude with two small children was entirely new to me. I’d have to find my way.

I saw it as my biggest opportunity yet to provide for them in a huge, alpha-caring way.

For starters, I was determined not to rely on screen time in the car. Old-school or just plain crazy, I wanted my girls to discover the same richness I was blessed with as a child who made several road trips to Montana each year with my family. Like the fond memories I’d collected, I wanted my children filled up on visions of cows, horses, windmills, trains, rivers, mountains, sights of campers sharing the road with us, quaint historic towns to pass through, and long stretches of highway tucked through lush valleys and meadows.

To get ahead of my girls, I made them road trip binders filled with games for highway bingo, tic-tac toe, maps, coloring pages, and mazes. I’d stocked up on audio books from the library, and created playlist after playlist of tunes for their driving enjoyment. Every 30 minutes or 30 miles, they’d get a ticket to help pass time and track the distance we’d traveled. At the start of each day, I’d orient them by giving them a sense of how many tickets they could expect by the time we reached our destination. When they complained about being hot, I surprised them with personal fans, which they delightedly hung around their necks. I equipped them with snack menus and we used dry-erase crayons to track our intake of carbs, protein, fruit, veggies, and sweets-n-treats to ensure a balanced mix of food. When things got really intense, I whipped out my accordion folder of emergency tools: Mad-Libs for giggles, bubble wrap to pop, and Cheerios necklaces hand-strung with love by Mom and Dad.

While I confess the iPad was locked and loaded just in case things got really bad, I’m happy to report we didn’t need it.

That’s not to say, though, that the girls were quiet and calm the whole drive through and all was pure bliss. In fact, at times the car sounded like we’d strapped a herd of dying pterodactyls into the car seats instead of two small children.

In the midst of the screeching, as I navigated my way through traveling with preschoolers on a road trip, I saw that being on top of the girls’ every anticipated need required balance. Getting ahead is what made the long road trip survivable, for sure. But too much verged on catering, and the girls would very easily turn demanding – treating me as their attendant, wanting to dominate every quiet moment in the car and take over any conversation my husband and I wanted for ourselves.

They were complaining, demanding, arguing, and yelling. And when the frustration of it all got the best of me, suddenly I was complaining, demanding, arguing, and yelling, too. I’d encountered a wall in the maze, blocking me from seeing my way through.

Even though I know bumping into a wall is a good thing in the long run (only if it’s metaphorical!) – I never set out with an intention to hit a wall … especially while on a long road trip with two young children in the scorch of a Montana summer!

Rather than drive right through the wall – which was tempting, the minivan had some good horsepower, after all! – it was an opportunity to stop and assess. In all of my fond memories, detailed preparations, and idyllic visions for the trip, I had forgotten about two important futilities, or things that I simply cannot change:

I’m not perfect. No matter how much I’d prepared, I still couldn’t get ahead of every single thing. I still couldn’t keep the pterodactyls quiet and calm the whole drive through. I still couldn’t keep all four of us happy all 30 hours long. And no matter how Supermom I aimed to be, my own frustration got the best of me at times, turning me into Snappymom.

Boredom is necessary. Every road trip needs boredom! And more importantly, every child needs boredom. It’s a valuable life lesson I absolutely must give to my children – the experience of boredom and the knowledge that they can survive it … and ideally surpass it, to discover the natural curiosity and outward interest, or emergence, which lies on the other side of it.

Thankfully, as soon as I could see myself at this wall of the maze, it was easy to turn around – no TripTik or illegal U-turns required!

First, I felt the sadness around my futilities. It’s frustrating to work so hard only to face, head-on, things that simply cannot be changed. The frustration needs a way out, so it leaks in attacking and unsatisfying spurts of complaining, demanding, arguing, and yelling. But in order to truly adapt, futilities must be grieved. It hurt to admit, “What I’m doing – trying to be Supermom, trying to avoid boredom, trying to keep everyone quiet and happy – isn’t working.” Only by recognizing and feeling the disappointment of this could I find another route.

Then, I could come from a softer, gentler place to lovingly help my children through their own futilities. I presented them with the things they couldn’t change – things I knew would bring about upset, but that they needed to experience: “Sorry, girls, the snack bar is closed right now.” and “I know it’s hard, but it’s quiet time right now and Daddy and I are going to have some grown-up talk for a while.” And then I made lots of room for the tears and pterodactyl screeches they needed to let loose. With kindness I held firm, even though it was painful and made the minivan seem like a mini torture chamber for us all.

We’re back home now, the pain already fading from consciousness and leaving in its place a slew of fond memories from our road trip adventure. I feel incredible fulfillment with the experience of driving my way through the maze. My execution wasn’t flawless at every turn, but from the wider perspective I know my provisions served my daughters’ attachment to me and ultimately served their development – I provided room for their emergence and moved them toward adaptation … and had a lot of fun along the journey!

© Sara Easterly. All rights reserved.
This essay was first published as an editorial by the Seattle Neufeld Community.