My children have a game that absolutely drives me nuts. They choose the most obnoxious classmate they have gone to school with and they call each other that name over and over. In the past umpteen years, my daughter has been called Sammy by her brothers. My sons have been called Crystal and Pickle (no, I’m not kidding) by their sister. The game usually culminates in total anarchy just as we’re about to share a quiet dinner or leave to go on a trip. I’m beginning to understand why some insect species eat their young.
Last year, I finally had enough. I bought the biggest conversion van on the market. It was a 7.5 liter 460 engine behemoth that passed anything but a gas station. Why did I buy it? Because when we drove a car, the children fought over the window and who sat in the middle. They couldn’t see, couldn’t hear the radio, someone was sleeping on them, they were too hot, too cold, too cramped, or get this, someone was sitting on their imaginary line.
Now I drive a van that’s built like an ark, has more windows than an inner-city aquarium, more seating capacity than a high school football stadium, dual heat and air conditioning, a television, a king size bed, and you know what? They still fight! My only consolation is they are ten yards away instead of one and when I turn the radio up high, they are somewhat muffled.
I’ve discovered something very important as a parent of three “blessed” children. Don’t call your parents for sympathy. When I was sharing with them on the phone how much my kids argued and fought, I heard nothing but hysterical laughter. I did get a postcard a week later with the words, “We have been vindicated,” on it. I have to assume it was from them.
I wonder if there is an end in sight? Will the time ever come when my three children will take a ride, eat a meal, or play together when I won’t hear arguing? Oddly enough, I have the answer to this question. It’s in the sale of recreational vehicles. They are selling like hotcakes. It’s due to the fact that 90 percent of all RVers are running away from their kids. When I drive more than 200 miles with my children in tow, I arrive at my destination so frazzled my knuckles must be pried from the wheel by the Jaws of Life and my hair looks like a bomb went off! Yet every RVer I see driving down the road seems relaxed, composed, and most are grinning ear to ear.
I have decided that when my last child hits 18, my wife and I are joining the witness protection program and buying an RV. We’re only coming home if our grandchildren are just like their parents. We’re not going to miss our chance at vindication either.