I’ve uttered quite a few outlandish statements to my partner, Casey, during late-night escapades, but “Let’s drive to Cleveland” might just take the cake. It’s not that Cleveland is a terrible destination; in fact, it’s my hometown and a lovely spot in the U.S.—perhaps not the entire nation, but at least among those listed on Forbes’ Most Dangerous Cities list. However, the trek from our home in San Diego spans a whopping 2,400 miles. Possible? Sure. Wise, considering we’ve unexpectedly birthed three kids in the last three years? Not quite.
Our first-day goal was to reach Phoenix, where Casey and I planned to enjoy a one-night stay at a four-star resort that was going for about 65 bucks—a standard rate during the summer months. We figured the kids could manage the five-hour drive: a bit of napping, some screen time, a few tears soothed by threats and sugary treats, and we’d be there before we knew it. Oh, how naive we were.
Less than two hours into our journey, the rebellion commenced. All three boys were in full meltdown mode—screaming and crying without pause. Normally, we could distract them with toys or snacks, but today was different; they were uninterested in the former, and the latter was out of reach. Our only option, as declared by our almost three-year-old, the self-appointed leader of the group, was to pull over in response to his relentless cries of “I wanna get out!”
After a quick stop at a fly-ridden burger joint, we rejoined the road. Our two oldest boys seemed appeased by our peace offering of french fries and agreed to cooperate for the remaining three hours. And I believed they genuinely tried. They’re good kids, and not just because of the tax credits they provide. But just 15 minutes later, the agreement was shattered.
We were five people crammed into a 6 x 15 Mazda minivan, filled to the brim with luggage and chaos. The boys’ frantic screams were driving me up the wall. Tension tightened around my neck, sending chills down my spine. I turned to Casey and said, “Should we just turn back?” Neither of us had the guts to respond. The only thing I could focus on was getting to Phoenix… just get to Phoenix. And then, out of nowhere, flashing lights appeared in my rearview mirror.
As a child, I had my share of encounters with the police—locked in a squad car at eight for riding on a friend’s moped, wrongfully detained at 17 for theft at a Walmart. Now, at 34, it seemed the universe was reminding me of my status within the justice system. I assumed the familiar position: hands on the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead, preparing to switch from African American Vernacular English to Standard American English, adorned with a polite smile.
The officer shined his flashlight into the van and asked for my information. “Why were you driving so fast?” he inquired. “How fast was I going, sir?” I shot back, trying to keep my composure. “87,” he replied, eyeing me with suspicion. I glanced at Casey, who couldn’t hear us over the chaos in the back. “He said 87, but I doubt I was going that fast…” I thought, mentally calculating the impending ticket—could be $400, maybe more.
“Where are you headed?” he probed. “Ohio, but just Phoenix tonight, sir.” He glanced at the frenzy in the backseat, looking less than impressed. “I’m just going to give you a fix-it ticket. Update your driver’s license to your current address within 30 days.” After sticking to the speed limit, we finally rolled into Phoenix four hours later, just past midnight. The kids were completely out cold. We lugged them and a mountain of luggage into our suite, relieved to be done with the day. To celebrate our questionable decision-making, Casey and I raided the minibar. One drink led to two, and before long, we were enjoying some “adult time” until we were interrupted by our three-year-old, who walked in with a bewildered grin. Casey jumped up, startled, while I just sat there grinning as if nothing was amiss.
As we continued through Arizona and New Mexico, we developed a system to make the road trip somewhat bearable. I drove most of the way, with essential items—a baby toilet and a cooler—stored beside me. Casey sat in the second row, juggling between comforting our oldest boys and rocking the newborn’s car seat.
Our strategy was to avoid small towns and reach a major city each day. We stopped every couple of hours at malls and playgrounds, allowing the kids to stretch their legs and, let’s be honest, take a necessary bathroom break. From Phoenix, we arrived in a surprisingly sleepy Albuquerque, where the university students had vanished, replaced by an overwhelming number of grasshoppers. We checked into the hotel around 11 p.m., instantly bringing life to the place with our kids’ tantrums and bed-jumping antics, capping off the day with some delicious takeout.
We attempted to leave Albuquerque early the next morning, but the boys had other plans. Waking up in an unfamiliar room drove them into a frenzy. They pulled hair, bit each other, and threw themselves on the floor in protest. The solution? Letting them ride on the luggage cart while I pushed it, shooting nervous glances at the hotel staff.
Once we finally hit the road, we had already been traveling for more than 30 hours. Everything began to look the same. The scenery blurred into a monotonous stretch of blacktop and corporate chain restaurants. Making it to Oklahoma City felt like an ambitious goal at this point.
We eventually succumbed to a stop in Amarillo, Texas, just in time to witness the annual Texas Longhorn Cattle Drive. A diverse crowd cheered as the massive animals meandered past. The kids enjoyed the change of scenery—at least until my oldest threw a fit because I wouldn’t let him ride a cow. After prying him off the sidewalk, we continued our journey, leaving behind a now messy Italian restaurant.
We reached Oklahoma City well after midnight, employing our refined hotel check-in strategy. I’d drop Casey off at the entrance to grab the room keys while I stayed with the sleeping children. Once I parked, I’d haul the toddlers inside, hoping to avoid waking them. After unloading our luggage, I collapsed onto the bed, contemplating where to find some beer while whispering to Casey to stay awake.
That night, Casey fell asleep, but I managed to find a 7-Eleven selling beer until 2 a.m. I bought a couple of tall boys and indulged in some well-deserved relaxation in the dark. The stress began to fade, along with my frustration. The futile yelling from the driver’s seat, my misguided belief that this week-long drive would be less taxing than a six-hour flight, and the endless cycle of packing and unpacking would surely provide us with stories to laugh about for years.
Our next stop was St. Louis, an eight-hour drive from Oklahoma City, which, with kids in tow, easily turned into a six-hour ordeal. Reaching St. Louis meant we were inching closer to Cleveland. Although the cities are nine hours apart, they share a common narrative of urban struggles and community resilience.
As we drove through the city, we arrived at our hotel just as a Rod Stewart concert ended, the streets bustling with exuberant concert-goers. I wanted to valet the van, but not at a price that rivaled our hotel room. We opted for self-parking, only for the kids to wake up as soon as we exited the vehicle. The hotel connected to a mall—great, except the entrance closed at night unless you had a key card. Thankfully, a tipsy concert-goer let us in.
Once we reached our room, the kids erupted with energy, jumping on beds and climbing onto the windowsill, reminding me of a family trip from my childhood. We had intended to visit Disney World but ended up in a Red Roof Inn in Georgia. Just being somewhere different was thrilling for a kid. However, the realization hit me: my kids probably wouldn’t even remember this road trip.
The next afternoon, we finally arrived in Ohio, first visiting Amber’s family in the rural outskirts before making our way to Cleveland a few days later. The weather was surprisingly reminiscent of San Diego. Three generations of Thompsons lounged on my parents’ porch, engaging in the quintessential Midwestern pastime of discussing each other and passersby. The boys gave it their all for their grandparents, who laughed heartily and exclaimed, “Look at them!” Casey and I shared stories, reveling in the chaos of our journey.
In the end, while we had our fair share of challenges, we returned with memories that would last a lifetime—each mishap just adding to the tale of our adventure.
Summary
The journey across the country with three children proved to be as chaotic as it was memorable. From unexpected police encounters to tantrums, the trip was filled with stress and laughter, reminding the parents that even the wildest adventures can create cherished family moments.
Keyphrase: cross-country road trip with kids
Tags: home insemination kit, home insemination syringe, self insemination