RV Life - Back Issues

Ah, Kids

I suppose it was my time, for I’m told that no parent escapes it. You see, I don’t recognize my own children any more. Those once cuddly kids in the backseat are gone, replaced by maniacal creatures. Whereas they once filled their time on long car rides cooing, sleeping and playfully gesturing at all the trains and trucks along the highway, two ornery doppelgangers have suddenly taken their place. Or perhaps the two have been transformed into a pair of surly beasts, probably the effects of too many Happy Meals or radiation from sitting too close to the TV. Frankly, I don’t know what happened, but lately, when in the car, my kids are… well, kind of annoying.

The first “Are we almost there?” shot from the backseat shocked us. Three-year-old Parker had always been content to idle his time back there with any number of diversions: reading books, eyeing the ubiquitous construction sites, or sedate in some kind of Zen-like meditation.

However, on our latest trip to Michigan, it wasn’t five minutes before sorties of such horrifying questions began. “Are we there now?” he’d counter. “Can we be there now?” he would plead. And then the complaints came pouring in: “I don’t like sitting,” he would chide, followed by “I don’t like the car.” What? Where did we go wrong? Did that pile of comic books I gave him corrupt his mind?

Naturally, the 1-year-old started following suit, up to his own baby brand of trickery. Maddux did his best to unnerve us with a limited vocabulary of “Mom-ma,” “Dad-da,” and “chuck,” which we believe might mean truck.

And the screaming! No, not the pinched-by-the-seatbelt kind of screaming, but rather the yelling at the top of his lungs variety. You know, just for the fun of it. That kid has a set of pipes on him. Can an “American Idol” audition be far behind? Oh, how quickly they can turn on you. Not 20 minutes into the trip, and I was searching around for the whiskey bottle.

Still, the only thing I feared more than the cackling and the non-stop Q&A from the cheap seats was a sudden, ominous silence. Silence, of course, used to be a good thing. It meant sleeping babies, with thoughts of French fries dancing through their heads. But this go-around, I knew better. A quick glance back revealed the kind of mischief I was afraid of. The two were tag-teaming the dog—Maddux with Daisy the beagle’s tail in his mouth, Parker using her as a footrest. Sadly, Daisy has become accustomed to her role as both pacifier and ottoman. A quick and decisive “No” was only met by laughter. The boys learned long ago that I was the family good cop. Raps of authority coming from me were met with glee, kind of like watching Britney Spears perform the Bard.

Still, I’d preferred the turning-against to the Wrestlemania that ensued between the two of them when one decided to lord something over the other. Oh, the humanity of it all. Parker decided to parade his two-foot-high snowman doll (don’t ask me why I brought this along or why someone would make such a thing) over his kid brother, only to be met with shrieks of anger.

It turns out, Maddux could not be consoled. It was that ridiculously ugly snowman or nothing. No, the truck book I retrieved for him in vain would not do nor would a Ritz cracker, Matchbox car, nor the purple Cinderella figure that mysteriously appeared in the car one day. At one point, in a fit of snotty rage, Maddux drop-kicked (from a sitting position, mind you) a “sippy” cup out of my hand like a young ninja. Parker laughed and attempted to do the same from his seat. My precious boys were now practicing the martial arts with uncanny precision. I just prayed they weren’t carrying swords in their car seats.

And where was my wife, Anne, during all this, you ask? Driving, with a satisfied smile on her face. She had sat in this very passenger seat many times, and arbitrated her fair share of backseat showdowns. Now, it was my turn in the hot seat. No wonder she cold-cocked me for the car keys. And here I thought my only job while riding shotgun was to manage the radio dial.

Mercifully, the boys eventually fell asleep. No matter that it was mere miles from our destination when the zzz’s kicked in—or that now, suddenly refreshed, the Peterson tag-team was ready to resume the lively games of the day, including pile on daddy and make him cry. Those few short, quiet minutes were simple bliss. Anne and I looked back at the two cuddly, sleeping piles and smiled.

“Aren’t we lucky?” she said. “So lucky,” I replied, checking my face in the mirror for bruises.