How Many More Miles is It?

Traveling with children is an experience not unlike a trip to the dentist; like the dentist, young children find a sore spot and start jabbing.

Recently a friend and I traveled to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina for a week of fun in the sun with our two boys, Jeremy and Gabe, both age six. Our journey began at 7:30 a.m. Plans to leave earlier were hampered by my friend's inability to get out of bed at 5 a.m. As we made our way onto the Interstate, my son Jeremy uttered the words I grew to hate: "How many more miles is it?"

In preparation for the long trip, we'd been wise enough (so we thought) to provide each child with identical pillows. Apparently, they each marked a pillow with their own special "little man scent", and soon cries of "That's my pillow!" and "He's touching me!" echo from the back seat . I gazed at my friend with glassy eyes and said "How many more miles is it?"

Each time we see water - even a small pond - the boys ask "Is that the ocean?" and are advised, multiple times, that the ocean is much, much larger. This explanation prompts the question "How many more miles is it?" Eventually, all questions from the back seat are banned.

Jeremy finally falls asleep, and we encourage Gabe to do the same. He responds by holding his eyes open wide with his fingers. We offer him $10 to go to sleep, sure that the lure of cold, hard cash will, at the very least, encourage him to fake sleep and be quiet for a short while. Instead, he decides to try to wake up Jeremy, is swatted by his mother, and cries non-stop for the next 30 miles before finally falling into an exhausted sleep.

Both boys wake up as we are cruising down South Ocean Boulevard in search of our hotel. The boys want to stop at every hotel, not being able to comprehend the meaning of "reservation."

Our week at the beach is quite eventful. We rent canvas rafts, which the boys enjoy riding so much they fail to notice the tide is carrying them down the beach several thousand yards, necessitating numerous retrievals. I decide it would be fun to ride a raft myself, and am immediately hit by what must be a tidal wave and nearly drown. Gabe takes on quite a bit of seawater and promptly throws up on the beach. We decide it's time to take a break, and provide the boys with sand buckets and shovels. A short time later, Jeremy runs over and hands me a small object, thought to be a seashell; that is, until numerous little legs appear and the creature attempts to gain a foothold on the palm of my hand. The creature is rapidly returned to Jeremy, who confines it to the sand bucket for a while, then sets it free to terrorize other innocent mommies.

As with all vacations, time passes far too quickly, and soon it is time to go home. As we drive along Ocean Boulevard for the last time, I hear a voice from the back seat call out, "How many more miles is it?"