The Military Spouse Road Trip Survival Guide (Spoiler: There Isn't One)

We made it back home.

Barely.

But isn't that the military spouse way? Nothing can ever just... happen.

For three weeks before we left the lake house, I had one simple request.

"Can we split the kids this time?"

I've driven them coast to coast, coast back to the Midwest, and now the Midwest back to the coast again. I wasn't asking for a vacation. I wasn't even asking for a kid-free day. I was simply asking to alternate.

You take the kids one day. I'll take them the next.

Revolutionary concept, I know.

Apparently, this was unreasonable.

First, my husband said we shouldn't split them up because they'd miss each other.

Then he said they like riding in my car better.

Which... of course they do.

It's a smaller vehicle. They're practically sitting in each other's laps. They can argue without having to raise their voices and are within hitting distance.

Then—and this was my personal favorite—he informed me he didn't trust me driving his truck because I "break it." for the record you look at his truck and it breaks.

So naturally...

I ended up driving both kids.

The dog.

All the snacks.

All the emergency supplies.

The 10 million stuffies.

The mound of blankets.

The backup chargers for electronics because heaven forbid one cord stop working.

And, of course...

All of the responsibility.

Alone.

Again.

Meanwhile, my husband was driving his truck and, because he wasn't stopping every twenty minutes for snacks, potty breaks, Bluetooth headphone negotiations, spilled drinks, or finding the one stuffed animal someone suddenly couldn't live without, he ended up about an hour ahead of us for most of the trip.

Now, he claims it was because he had to keep an eye on "the load" in the truck to make sure it didn't shift.

Apparently the load in my car—two kids, an eighty-pound dog, seventy-three snack wrappers, and what was left of my sanity—didn't require supervision.

Day one actually went surprisingly well.

Sure, my four-year-old asked, "How many more minutes?" approximately every two minutes for eight straight hours.

There were spilled snacks.

flutuation in service for Wi-Fi.

Enough rounds of "Where are we?" to make me consider throwing the GPS out the window.

But honestly?

No major disasters.

Then came day two.

Folks...

I swear it felt like God was a kid with a magnifying glass just seeing how much pressure I could take before bursting into flames.

We left bright and early.

First stop: Buc-ee's.

My official review?

It's basically a glorified JCPenney with brisket.

I know some of you are already typing angry comments.

I said what I said.

Five minutes later we stopped at Love's because my daughter suddenly remembered she absolutely had to buy her best friend back home a souvenir snow globe. Also it is the only gas station she will use the facilities for on a road trip.

Then Starbucks because coffee. Duh!

Then McDonald's because my son needed an emergency potty break.

Ten minutes later...

"Mom... I have to pee."

"Buddy... you literally just went."

"No, Mom... I REALLY have to pee."

Friends...

There wasn't an exit anywhere.

So I did what every parent has done at least once.

I drove just a little faster while praying a gas station would magically appear.

Finally...

An exit.

Unfortunately...

It was very clearly not the kind of area where you voluntarily stop.

sidenote: my father once told me never to pull off on a road that was named after a president or named after martin luther king. If you know what i am talking about you know.

But when your four-year-old is screaming that he's about to pee, survival instincts override common sense.

So off the highway we went.

Only...

The traffic light wasn't working.

We're sitting there.

Cars everywhere.

No movement.

My son is panicking.

I'm digging through my car looking for literally anything he can pee in.

The only thing I find?

A diaper.

I hand it back.

He drops it.

And apparently, unzipping your pants is your bladder's universal signal that it's game time.

The floodgates opened.

Yes, some made it into the diaper.

The rest landed on...

His pants.

His blanket.

My hand.

Because obviously.

Now I'm pulled over at a sketchy gas station, cleaning pee off a preschooler while people start wandering toward my car like zombies sensing fresh meat.

Folks...

To say I was questioning my husbands likelyhood of surviving my wrath when I got home would be an understatement.

Eventually we escaped.

I found a safer place to stop.

Got everyone cleaned up.

And for the rest of the trip...

My son wore a diaper.

Not because he needed one.

Because I wasn't doing that again.

but was that the end of my adventure, no of course not.

About three hours later...

The tire pressure light started blinking.

Then it stayed on.

Fantastic.

Now, if you've never driven through rural Alabama, let me tell you something.

There are apparently stretches of highway where civilization simply clocks out for the day.

No tire shops.

No service stations.

No exits.

Just trees.

Lots of trees.

I pulled over to check the tire.

The shoulder?

Calling it a shoulder is generous.

It was about six inches of white gravel, then grass, and then whatever happened after that became Future Me's problem.

I figured the orange sign ahead was just another construction warning.

Nope.

It actually said:

PRISONER CLEANUP.

Then I noticed the yellow transport van parked farther up the road.

Folks...

At that point I honestly wondered if I was about to be greeted by a chain gang.

I got right back in the car, locked the doors, and started searching my phone for the nearest...

Well...

Let's be honest.

The nearest anything.

The closest Love's?

An hour away.

No tire shops.

Nothing.

I looked at the tire.

It had a chunk of rubber missing, but it was still holding air.

So I made the highly technical automotive decision of...

"Well... let's just drive slower."

Would my husband approve?

Probably not.

Was he standing on the side of the highway with two kids, a dog, and a wounded tire?

Also no.

So...

You do you, boo.

Somewhere around that point I remembered my husband telling me he didn't trust me with his truck because I "break it."

For the record...

AGAIN… this one wasn't even my fault.

I still haven't decided if I'm going to tell him that.

Could I have called him?

Sure.

But unless he'd suddenly figured out how to teleport, there wasn't much he could've done.

So instead I called my sister and informed her that if I didn't make it home, she was inheriting all of my earthly possessions simply because she hadn't abandoned me in rural Alabama with two kids and a dog.

Thankfully...

We all made it home.

The kids survived.

The dog survived.

The tire survived.

And, as you've probably guessed since you're still reading this...

I survived too.

About an hour later, my husband looked at me and said,

"You look tired."

Sir...

I have been peed on.

I have survived rural Alabama.

I have inspected a tire next to a sign that literally said PRISONER CLEANUP.

I have consumed enough caffeine to legally qualify as a Starbucks franchise.

And that is your opening line?

Folks...

I had to remind myself I am far too pretty for prison.

Instead, I texted my sister what he'd said.

Her response?

"I don't think he's going to make it through the night. Better put his uniform on him."

(That's an inside joke for another day.)

But the next time someone asks why military spouses always look just a little bit tired...

It's because somewhere out there, one of us is driving hundreds of miles alone with two kids, an eighty-pound dog, a coffee that's gone cold, a GPS with a questionable sense of humor, and a vehicle that has decided today is the perfect day to test our patience.

And if we're lucky...

We'll only have to stop for pee six times.