Mini-Mayhem

It’s been a long time since I’ve travelled in a minivan packed with kids. In fact, the last time I did so, I myself was one of those kids, riding with my parents, my little sisters, and some half-adopted friend or another. From that first-generation maroon Dodge Caravan on through till well after I left home, the current model year minivan was Dad’s company car. Given the pervasiveness of the “breeder wagon” now, it’s funny to think of how odd it looked to everyone back in 1983. Three doors, three rows of seats, three feet higher off the ground than a regular car … or so it seemed. Yes, it was quite the conversation piece rolling through the village of Erin, fresh off the line.

The biggest difference, I think, between that Caravan and the Sienna I climbed into this weekend—25 years later—is that no one would use the word “conversation” in a sentence related to the latter vehicle. Even as an adjectival phrase. Granted, any enclosed space containing all four Arnold girls is going to scale the decibel chart (a fave parental plea was to “keep it down to a dull roar!”), but loud, laughey, pause-free conversation is still conversation. That acoustic nightmare simply can’t compare to having all four of said sisters’ young boys strapped into their boosters for a long trip. So go ahead and smile, Mom, about how “what goes around comes around,” but you have no idea what it’s like to be in this front seat.

Last weekend, Trace and I took Sam and Carter up to Barrie for an overnight. We swapped her Corolla for the Fowler van and scooped James and Charlie for a weekend of cousin craziness. From that point, we clocked perhaps 12 hours in the car together, first riding back to Ottawa and then heading out on a weekend road trip to the Granby Zoo in Quebec’s Eastern Townships. While some might chalk it up to the boys being just 4 or 5 years old, I imagine that all future group road trips will run pretty much like this one did.

Here is a random sampling of sound bites.

Them: “You’re a dumb, dumb stupid head!” “Well, your head’s a baseball made of ear wax!” “You’re a poopy, slurpy, yucky pile of poop!” “No, you’re a poopy, slurpy, yucky pile of poop!”
Us: “Hey, no copy-cats. If you’re going to name-call, be creative. That’s a van rule.”

Them: “I farted!” “No, that was me!” “I did it, too — it was three farts!” “Okay, how did the car really make that noise? Do it again!”
Us: “It’s van magic. No questions!” (It’s the highway rumble strip actually. It grabs attention when they’re shouting.)

Them: “I don’t like my seatbelt strap! I hate it! I’m not wearing it! It’s UN-comfortable.”

Us: “So is busting windshield glass with your cheek bones; put it back on!”

Them: “Carter! You slept through it! Sam barfed right into the goldfish cracker bag! Twice!” “Aww, really? Where is it?”
Us: “It’s going in the garbage. You can go back to sleep.”

Them: “James! … Hey, James! … James, look! … James? … James! …”

Us: “James, Sam’s talking to you.”

Them: “I see a rollercoaster!” “That’s not a rollercoaster; it’s a hydro tower.” “Noooooooo: he’s right! It’s a rollercoaster.” “It’s not!” “It is!” Mom!!”
Us: “We don’t see anything. Who wants Smarties?”

Them: Look! A sideways traffic light!” “Another one!” “Another one!” “Another one!”

Us: “Yes, they’re all like that here. Neat, eh? Now let’s stop pointing them out with shrieks.”

Them: “French, French, French. Why is everything French in French-land?”

Us: “They’re weird that way…”

Them: “blbnmmmm” “bkljvvvaaammm!” “bllamalalamm!” “bblbmlbmblbm!”

Us: “Please, please, please use words while you’re driving us crazy … ”

And, of course –

Them: “Are we there yet?”

Us: “Yes, we are. See that crow in the field over there? That’s the zoo. Enjoy!”

Where was Jeremy in all this? In the driver’s seat for one, but also midway between “Us” and “Them.” He is, after all, a boy. And one who half-secretly believes that loud Arnold Sister conversation is tougher to bear than a minivan full of kindergarden boys.

It might be a gender thing.