I’ve uttered a number of wild statements to my partner, Sarah, during drunk conversations, but suggesting, “Let’s drive to Cleveland!” might just top the list. It’s not that Cleveland’s a terrible place; in fact, it’s my hometown and has its charm. However, the reality of a 2,400-mile trek from our home in San Diego was daunting. Was it feasible? Sure. Was it wise considering we’ve unintentionally welcomed three kids in just three years? Not at all.
Our goal for the first leg of the journey was to reach Phoenix. Sarah and I were excited about spending a night in a four-star resort for about $65, a steal during the scorching summer months in Phoenix. We figured the kids could manage the five-hour drive: a little napping, a couple of hours of screen time, some tears quelled by bribes of sugar, and we’d arrive without issue. Or so we thought.
Less than two hours into our journey, chaos erupted. All three boys began to wail and bicker loudly. Normally, we could pacify them with toys or snacks, but today was different. Our oldest, Ben, the group’s self-appointed leader at nearly three years old, was adamant about getting out of the car.
After a brief stop at a less-than-ideal In-N-Out, where we attempted to stretch our legs and appease our little ones with some fries, we hit the road again. The two older boys seemed content for a moment, but that peace didn’t last long. Just 15 minutes later, the noise level reached a new high.
We were five bodies crammed into a 6 x 15 Mazda minivan, surrounded by luggage and a sense of impending doom. The boys’ relentless screaming was maddening, and I felt the tension creeping up my spine. I turned to Sarah and posed the question, “Should we just turn back?” Neither of us had the guts to respond. We just needed to press on, but “on” was still three hours away.
Then, as if the universe had a twisted sense of humor, I spotted flashing lights in my rearview mirror. As a child, I had my own run-ins with the law, and at 34, it seemed I was due for another reminder of my place within the system.
Assuming the “black man pulled over with a white woman” posture—hands on the wheel, eyes straight ahead—I awaited my fate. The officer approached, flashlight in hand, and asked for my documentation. “Why were you driving so fast?” he questioned.
“How fast was I going, sir?” I replied, trying to keep my cool.
“87,” he answered, looking at me with a mix of suspicion and authority.
I stole a glance at Sarah, who was straining to hear over the cacophony in the back. “Well, he said 87, but I doubt I was going that fast…” I thought to myself, calculating the potential ticket. Thankfully, he opted to give me a fix-it ticket instead of a hefty fine, which was a small mercy.
With a newfound resolve to adhere to the speed limit, we finally arrived in Phoenix around midnight, the kids asleep in their seats. We lugged our bags into the hotel and decided to unwind with a drink from the minibar. One drink led to another, and just as we were starting to relax, our three-year-old walked in, grinning. Sarah jumped up, startled, while I simply smiled, thinking happy parents make for happy kids.
As we traversed Arizona and New Mexico, we developed a system to make the drive more manageable. I took the wheel most of the time, with essentials like a portable toilet and cooler within reach. Sarah sat in the second row, alternating between comforting the boys and tending to our youngest, while we made frequent stops at malls and playgrounds.
After a night in Albuquerque filled with chaos and takeout, we planned to leave early the next day, but the boys had other ideas, resulting in more delays and a hilarious ride on the luggage cart. We eventually hit the road again, but after over 30 hours of travel, everything started to blend into one long stretch of blacktop.
In Amarillo, Texas, we stumbled upon the annual Longhorn Cattle Drive, which provided a much-needed distraction for the kids, though it quickly turned into another tantrum for the oldest when I wouldn’t let him ride the cows. After a messy meal at an Italian restaurant, we pressed on, arriving in Oklahoma City well after midnight.
Our hotel check-in became a well-rehearsed routine; Sarah would get the keys while I kept an eye on the kids. After unpacking, I made a late-night trip to a 7-Eleven for some beer to unwind, reflecting on the absurdity of the trip.
The next day brought us to St. Louis, where we faced another round of chaos as the kids awoke in a new place. They jumped on beds and explored every corner of the hotel room, reminiscent of my own childhood road trips.
Finally, we made it to Ohio, where we spent time with Sarah’s family and then reached Cleveland. The weather felt surprisingly familiar, and as three generations gathered on the porch, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of nostalgia and realization: while my kids may not remember this epic journey, it was a chapter in our family story we’d always cherish.
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Summary:
A family road trip from San Diego to Cleveland with three kids leads to chaos, unexpected challenges, and unforgettable moments. From battling tantrums and police stops to navigating hotel check-ins and family bonding, the journey highlights the joys and trials of parenthood.