Here Are the Songs I Played On a Long Car Trip to Get My Sons to Shut Up
4:55: Our first stop of the trip. Boy C's done better than I'd anticipated he'd do, but I suspect things are about to turn. He woke up about two minutes ago, realized he wasn't anywhere near his mother's breasts (currently, the ONLY place that seems to make him not hate the world), then exploded into anger. Tornadoes are not as furious. Boy B tried to console him, leaning over the car seat and whispering things to him and trying to get him suck on his pacifier. Boy A placed his hands over his ears and started crying. They look the same, but they're stitched from different material.
5:15: Moving again. Boy C is awake, but he isn't crying, which is no less miraculous than Jesus walking on water. Praise be to Damien Rice, the snake charmer currently bleeding out of the speakers.
5:20: Feist, "Comfort Me." Things are moving in the right dire--
5:20:15: Never mind. Boy C is losing his mind again. Awesome. Perhaps if I turn the radio up, that'll help?
5:20:18: NOPENOPENOPE. Didn't work. Made things worse. Stopping again.
5:27: While Wife nuzzles with Boy C, I run interference on Boy A and Boy B by taking them to get snacks in a corner store. I can't be certain, but I suspect we're in the same place that Texas Chainsaw Massacre happened.
5:27:20: Oh good. You know what's cool about small towns in Texas? All of the racism. The cashier at the store seemed offended that we were in there. She was extra curt and rude to us, but not to the white people in front of and behind us.
5:38: Okay, here we go on. Moving. Everyone seems okay. Wife is dialed in. She's driving like Tom Cruise in Days of Thunder.
5:45: Oh Christ. The sun, it's gone. I didn't even realize. It's like it just fell out of the sky. It's immediately black outside. I can hear the demons scratching at the car windows. God save us.
5:47: "Daddy, I smell poop." --Boy B. Awesome.
I'd like to say that it's definitely Boy C's, but there's a 20 percent chance it's not. The other day the boys and I were playing catch. After a few minutes, I noticed that each time I'd toss the ball to Boy B, he'd catch it, furl his eyebrows, stick his hand down the back of his pants, calibrate the results, then remove his hand and toss the ball back. I asked, "What are you doing with your hand there, boy?" He responded, "Checking to see if there's poop in my pants." I asked, "Don't you mean 'underwear'?" He responded, "No, my pants." I asked, "You're not wearing underwear?" He responded, "Nope." I asked, "Why not?" He responded, "Because I already pooped in them."
I couldn't get one daughter, God? ONE?
6:00: Aretha Franklin has been on the speakers for the last 20 or so minutes, but her gigantic voice is a bit too cumbersome for the ride. All of the pieces in the car are too delicate. She's overpowering everybody, and it's frustrating. First non-soundtracked part of the trip. Silence.
6:30: Second meltdown. Boy C's cries are rattling the body of the car off its frame. Stopping again. I'm going to take this time to try and pray an asteroid into crashing into Earth.
6:57: FUUUUUUUUUUUUU. Stopping again. I should've just walked to San Antonio.