I ignore her.
“My ear really hurts.”
“I’m sorry sweetie,” I say, leaning back to hold her tiny hand.
She starts crying, then screaming. “It hurts! It hurts! It hurts!”
This, of course, wakes up Paris’s three-year-old brother, Dante, who also begins to howl.
It’s midnight and we’re about halfway into a six-hour drive from our home in San Francisco to Grandma Linda’s in Santa Barbara. My husband, Anthony, is behind the wheel, and he’s the one who came up with the idea to drive at night. “The kids will sleep in the car,” he explained.
I agreed to Anthony’s plan because our family history with daytime road-trips to Grandma’s is full of fiascos: traffic jams, screaming fits, swelteringly hot weather, lost lunches splattered across the backseat. The idea to travel at night with quiet, sleeping children seemed brilliant—until now when both kids are in the midst of major meltdowns.
Paris turns up the volume: her screams become piercing shrieks. I cope by digging into Anthony.
“What were you thinking when you suggested driving at night?” I ask.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “You agreed to my plan.”
“Well, it was a stupid plan!”
At this point, I’m about to explode with frustration. Our family has traveled smoothly all over the world—New York, Hawaii, Idaho, Mexico, France, China, even Vietnam—yet we’re unable to successfully make the simple trip to Grandma’s house.
“Mama, Mama, MAMA,” Paris persists. “MAMAHHH!”
I consider opening the car door and jumping out, but instead I take a deep breath and say, “We need a hotel room and some baby Tylenol. Paris probably has an ear infection.”
“We need to get to my Mom’s,” Anthony says, “and get this drive over with.”
“Pull off the road, now.”
Anthony exits in Paso Robles, a small town about two hours north of Santa Barbara. We follow signs to the town square, where we find a lovely hotel. It’s 1 a.m.
I drag myself into the lobby and tell the man behind the desk that I want a room.
“$275,” he says.
“What?”
“$275.”
I tell him that we’re a family on our way to grandma’s house and my daughter . . .
He cuts me off and says, “$275.”
I stomp back to the car. “Too pricey,” I say. “We need to find a crappy-looking place. We’re not paying more than $100 for a room that we’ll be in for only a few hours.”
We pull up to a dark, dilapidated motel. The door is locked, so I knock. No answer. I continue to knock until a lady wearing a robe and slippers opens the door. Her rate’s $75—and I can practically see bugs scurrying across the floor. No way.
We drive around some more and then I spot a brightly lit hotel. BEST WESTERN the sign reads. “There, sweetie,” I say. “Let’s go there.”
I walk in, by this point it’s nearing 2 a.m. and Paris is still fussing.
I begin to tell my story, the tears welling up in my eyes, “My daughter has an ear infection . . .”
The man behind the counter cuts me off but he smiles and says, “I know. I understand. Welcome. How about a room for $99?”
We lug the kids into the room, a sparkling clean suite with two queen beds. Dante flops onto one of them and quickly nods off, but Paris is whimpering and grabbing onto her ear in pain. She’s hot and feverish.
While Anthony goes to pick up medicine at a 24-hour market, Paris and I watch TV. Mickey Mouse dances across the screen, Minnie trailing behind. Paris finally quiets.
Anthony returns with medicine. TV off. We all fall asleep.
We doze until 10 a.m. and wake refreshed and relaxed. Paris and Dante are all smiles. There’s a pool outside so I let the kids splash around on the steps. Then we pack up and hit the road, Grandma’s house only two hours away. I wonder, Are we going to be as comfortable there as we were at the hotel last night?
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