The Road Trip

And also the trip down memory lane that I didn't ask for

Luggage? Check. Sound machine? Check. Travel bassinet? Check. Phone chargers? Check. Diapers changed? Check. Youngest breastfed? Check. Snacks and water bottles? Check. Road toys? Check. Stuffies? Check. Espresso? Check. Postpartum anxiety? Check. Check. Check.

This is the check-list of questions that my husband and I run through as we are about to pull out of the driveway and embark on our first two-hour long road trip with two kids to visit my in-laws for the weekend. 

My daughters are three-months-old and almost two-years-old, twenty-one months apart. I have been a SAHM since March of 2020, and my husband has worked from home since then, too. We are in the very thick of parenting a toddler and a baby, yet we are surviving—albeit, barely.

After my terrible experience with postpartum depression and anxiety (PPD/PPA) following the birth of my first, I did everything I could to be proactive and plan for it with my second. I enlisted outside help from my mother-in-law. I delegated specific tasks to my husband and requested that he take full advantage of his company’s revised paid parental leave: six weeks. I readied our home environment by organizing closets and dressers and prepping freezer meals. I even lined up part-time childcare for my oldest once my husband returned to work. 

Shortly thereafter, on a cold, frosty evening in January of 2021, I birthed my second child, my snow baby, and waited in anticipation for the heavy-hitting PPD/PPA. It never really came—at least not to the extent that it had with my first, and so, I thought, Maybe it won’t. Maybe, this time, things will be different.

And, things were different in the beginning. The extra sets of hands and direct communication between my partner and I were working. The mental hurdles were less intense, and I wondered if it was because I had already been a mother and knew what to expect or if I had just become better equipped to cope with it since I had dealt with it before. Maybe, it was both. Either way, I was relieved. 

That is, until the road trip.

My husband takes the driver’s seat, and I, the passenger. Our daughters are buckled into their car seats in the back seat of our 2014 Toyota Sienna. After checking off the list, I think, Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

And then, after about an hour of being on the road, my oldest begins to melt down about a toy that has fallen on the other side of her car seat near the sliding door, out of my arm’s reach. My youngest has only just fallen asleep (as I had hoped and meticulously planned for) to take her longest nap of the day. I jerk around to begin shushing my oldest, failing in my attempt to reach for the fallen toy. I become anxiety-ridden.

My daughter's cries grow louder and louder, and I begin to panic. I respond to her wailing in a loud whisper, “Stop crying. I will get the toy after we make our next stop. Stop crying. Your sister is sleeping. Shhh, please be quiet.” My voice begins to shake and then breaks into a shout, matching my daughter’s elevated volume: “PLEASE, JUST LET YOUR SISTER SLEEP. STOP! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!” Exasperated, sleep-deprived tears begin to fall from my eyes. I don’t notice or feel them. And, then, I grab her leg—not enough to hurt her but enough for her to feel the sensation—in an effort to pull her out of her level-10 meltdown.

My own voice reverberates back into my ears, matching the shrill voice of my narcissistic father. I freeze in fear; I silence myself. But, my oldest daughter, who is clearly petrified, becomes even louder, even more distraught, screaming at the top of her lungs in an inconsolable fashion. I, too, become inconsolable due to my failure to control my own emotions. I am shaking from head to toe, feeling it all: my anxiety, my childhood trauma, my own emotional dysregulation, and my daughter’s emotional dysregulation. And then, as I had feared, the next to become inconsolable is my youngest, having been prematurely woken from her nap. 

My husband pulls off the next exit and parks at a gas station. Dismayed, he tells me that he never wants me to speak or act that way towards our children—ever again. My heart sinks. I acknowledge that I had messed up, that I’m a broken human, but my apology doesn’t cleanse the guilt that I feel at that moment. I ugly-cry tears of anguish, disappointment, and shame. I tell myself that I'm a bad mother. 

And then, out of nowhere, I’m launched into a random childhood memory that takes place in Florence, South Carolina. 

I am in the fifth or sixth grade, and I am with my family at a nicer-than-our-usual restaurant. After being sat and having our drink orders taken, I sit uneasy at the table with my family of five. I begin to peruse the menu, searching for the cheapest entrees (as I had been coached countless times before by my mother ), and I look up to survey my parents’ facial expressions after my own hasty reconnaissance. I land on my father’s face, and it is as I expected: disapproval. My stomach sinks, and I know what will happen next. He cues my mother with a snap, and she motions us all to leave the table and follow her quietly and quickly out the exit, out to the parking lot, out to our van, where we climb back in apprehensively.

My heart is racing; I feel nauseous. And then it starts: the maelstrom that is my father’s temper. He growls at my mother, “What in the world were you thinking?! I can’t believe you’d embarrass me like that in front of our entire family, in front of the whole restaurant! What’s the matter with you, woman?!” 

The tires squeal as my father pulls out of the parking lot onto the highway to head home. He speeds and revs up his charge, “Now why would you even suggest such an expensive place to eat when you know good-and-well that we don’t have that kind of money to spend?!”

My mother balks, clears her throat, and in a low voice says, “Now remember, honey, how you said that you would like to try that place tonight—how you said it would be nice to get out of the house and take all the kids out for a treat?”

The whirlpool of ridicule intensifies. I turn my gaze down and begin to repeatedly trace the three freckles that form an equilateral triangle on my left thigh. Meanwhile, my dad is switching from lane to lane in a maniacal manner. He’s pounding the steering wheel and slapping the dashboard with his hands like a crazy person. I dissociate but then am slammed back into reality when I hear these words: “I will kill every last one of us if you don’t admit that—right here, right now—that this was your idea and that you did this on purpose. And let me remind you that it only takes one quick turn of the steering wheel this way.” He yanks the steering wheel back and forth expeditiously, and the van jumps on the pavement. 

Reflexively, my mother jumps, too, and though I cannot see my her face, I can hear the terror in her words, “Stop!!! Okay, okay, fine: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I even suggested it.” 

Her body trembles and matches the tremors of my body and the bodies of my other two siblings.

I think we are around the ages of 11, 6, and 1. My mother is 28 or 29.

The four of us are on a boat, silently rocking asynchronously, in an ocean of anxiety and worry, holding our breaths and bracing for the next tidal wave.

“That’s right! And, don’t you ever embarrass me like that ever again,” my father shouts as he points so close to her face that he almost pokes her eye.

One of my siblings begins to whimper and lets out a piercing cry. My mother glares at me with a look of desperation and delivers her wordless command: “Handle her.” After receiving the order, I frantically set out to complete my assigned task. I am an obedient child.

I tell her to stop crying—to stop it right now or else we were all going to pay for it in the end. I place my hand over her mouth and plead to her.

Soon thereafter, she yields.

***

In the wake of my unhinged reaction to my toddler’s meltdown, I spent the remainder of the car ride beating myself up and questioning my disgraceful response. 

Was my reaction induced by postpartum anxiety? Was it hormones? Should I talk to my doctor about it? Should I talk to a therapist about it? What’s the matter with me? How do I “fix” myself? Am I even fit to be a mother? 

And then I realized: the crying of my own child mimicked the crying of my younger siblings on stressful driving trips with my parents. 

Typically, my father was in the driver’s seat. And typically, it was my job to get the sobbing child to stop crying. And since yelling, begging, and threatening were how my parents dealt with big emotions, I behaved the same when called to duty as a third parent.

And then, it all clicked. Car trips were traumatic during my upbringing. The drop in blood pressure, the racing of my heart, the sweating of my glands, and the churning of my stomach that I felt in the heat of my toddler’s meltdown were all physical symptoms caused by C-PTSD from my childhood. 

I shared this discovery with my partner, and we came up with a plan for the return trip home: he would take the passenger seat and handle the needs of our children, and I would drive. I could listen to podcasts or audiobooks to concentrate on the road, and I wouldn’t need to worry about anything child-related. 

The plan worked beautifully. 

Once we unpacked from our trip and settled back into our home, I prioritized repairing with my daughters. I owned my emotions and admitted my behavior was unreasonable and that the fault was not theirs; it was mine. I told them that I loved them “with all my heart” (like my mom used to say and still says today). I held them in my arms for as long as any busy baby and toddler would allow, shedding a tear or two while also holding myself for as long as I could allow. I told myself that I wasn’t a bad mother. 

I told myself that I was a human mother.

***

I now have a two-year-old and a four-year-old, and though road trips are still stressful, they have changed drastically due to the change in our strategy and also due to our daughters’ development. They have become more independent and more communicative. I no longer have to stop to nurse my baby. I no longer have to change diapers; my husband and I now take turns on bathroom stops. I no longer have to entertain them; they entertain themselves. 

And as our family travels more, I become better prepared, more flexible, and less anxious. My husband and I are able to adapt and adjust our roles accordingly. And we have also become masters at deciphering which parts of our system work and which ones do not. We are constant tinkers.

Above all, I am grateful to have a partner who is willing to hold me accountable, share the load, and love me—despite my shortcomings.