“Eat
the Egg McMuffin,” she said, dropping it on the empty hot cakes and sausage
foam plate. “I don't want you complaining within two hours at the park that
you're hungry.” I wasn’t hungry though. I just finished three
pancakes and some sort of meat patty. I asked her to take it away, but my mom
insisted. “We’ll go to Six Flags when you eat this; until it’s gone, we’re not
leaving.” I couldn’t let an egg sandwich come between me and roller coaster
heaven, so I grinned and ate it. After a grueling take-down, my mom, dad,
sister, my swell stomach, and I headed back into the car for our annual trip to
Six Flags Great America.
You
may wonder why I had to eat more after finishing what one would argue was a
hearty meal for a 60-pound 9-year-old. First, my mom insisted we take part in
the clean plate club for each meal; I believe that’s a consequence of being
raised by Great Depression-era parents. Second, she was an advocate of frugal
spending when it came to food. To ensure we wouldn’t indulge in overpriced park
grub, my mom’s tactic included eating a whopping meal of fast food on the way.
For double insurance, she assembled a cooler filled with juice boxes, granola
bars, and slimy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in case of midday hunger
pangs. You ate those brown bag champions since Mom would rather you eat dog
food than pay six dollars for a hot dog.
With
an hour left on our journey, I quietly watched the views from the car window.
The calm was interrupted by a tremendous rumble down yonder. And another. And
one very loud rumble that resembled what I imagine Ridley Scott tried to
emulate during the Alien birthing scenes. Those stomach rumbles were warning
calls for an impending disaster--a disaster that surely no humble Accord
deserved. I shook my mom’s seat in front and told her I had to go…bad. Also an
advocate of not using public restrooms, she shrugged off my request and
suggested I wait until we get to the park. Now, as most animals know, when your
intestines send tremors throughout your system, they’re not screwing around.
And when you’re a kid, it’s imperative to regard that message with high
priority. For my second plea, I screeched with an unmistakable sense of
urgency. Fortunately, the next exit was a rest stop. My dad pulled the car into
an empty spot, and my mom and I ran for the bathroom. I remember situating my
cheeks so swiftly onto the porcelain you’d think I reached a breakthrough in
magnetic science. I did what needed to be done and the urge was gone. We
settled back into the Accord to continue our journey to Six Flags.
Time
for some real talk: If your body has ever tried to eliminate something from
your system, you may know that one round is rarely the endgame. And, of course,
my body was not done with all that McDonald's bullshit. Or just shit—let’s be
real. About 15 minutes later, I had that foreboding urge, and that urge turned
to desperate need within seconds. I shouted for my parents to stop again,
insisting that I couldn’t bear another moment. Unfortunately, the next exit was
not for another seven miles, which meant at least another 10 minutes of that
feeling. I laid down, closed my eyes, and imagined Ronald McDonald throwing
hockey puck-shaped eggs at my mouth while he cackled.
I
soon felt the Accord slow its pace; my destination was close! This time, on the
other hand, I felt I couldn’t control the surge if I moved even an inch. Not
having a penchant for cleaning car upholstery, my mom threw me over her
shoulder and rushed me into the gas station bathroom. I don’t remember what
happened between toilet and sink contact, and perhaps that’s for the best. What
I do remember was feeling exhausted. As a kid, the sort of clenching stamina I
exhibited was extraordinary, but it came at a steep cost. We continued our trek
up to Six Flags, and I nervously stared out the window dreading another bodily murmur.
As
my dad caught sight of the roller coasters on the horizon, the family started
to cheer. We finally made it. But I cried. I cried because I didn’t want to be
on the road any longer. I cried from the embarrassment of seeing all the
strangers during each incident. And I mostly cried because my…you know what was
on fire. My mom asked if I needed some medicine and I nodded. We stopped off at
the exit before Six Flags to visit the Piggly Wiggly. My dad and I went in; he
grabbed me that pink miracle: Pepto Bismol. He gave me a swig and hid the
bottle as I insisted on chugging the rest. We got
back in the car and just as the enthusiasm for the theme park started to rise
again, I silenced it with a resounding “I WANT TO GO HOME!” I was so focused on
my discomfort. I don’t remember how upset my parents were—if at all. I’m sure
they were OK with not going to the theme park. Although I bet my sister was
disappointed. You know, I want to take the blame for that disappointment, but honestly,
I think it’s foolish to feed a kid more when they’re already full. You’re on a
road trip, and saving a few bucks on theme park food should be a goal not a
rule. I mean no disrespect to my mom. We all make mistakes. The repercussions
of this mistake would be grand, though.
Because
of that day, I developed a fear of
traveling in cars. I could handle the 5-minute bus ride to school, but a
10-minute ride to the grocery store or mall? Nope. I refused to travel outside
my comfort zone, which included laser precision toilet location awareness. This
went on for several months, and I made no effort to free myself from that
paranoia.
(To give some background to the next
section, I participated in coloring contests—and often won prizes. I recently
entered a contest to win a trip to Disney World. That was, of course, prior to
D-Day.)
Several
months later on an early Saturday morning, I heard the phone ring. My mom
answered, and her confused tone hastily turned to excitement. In that moment, I
knew exactly why my mom was so ecstatic. She was saying my name, saying the
Lord’s name, and thanking whoever Walt was. I was so scared. Mom
yelled for me to come downstairs. My heart dropped. I slowly walked down the
steps and she met me halfway, shoving the phone against my head.
“Hi.
Is this Katie?” the voice asked.
“…Yes.”
“Well,
Katie, we here at Piggly Wiggly want to congratulate you on winning the grand
prize in our coloring contest for a trip to Disney World!”
“No.
No. No-no-no… NO-NO-NO-NOOOOO!! …Please, nooo-oohoho!” I started to cry, laid
down on the stairs, and rolled down them in dramatic 9-year-old fashion. With
utmost certainty, I understood my doom awaited me on this 2-hour plane ride if
I couldn’t handle a 10-minute car ride. My mom grabbed the phone off the stairs
assuring the person on the other end that we accepted the grand prize. Thanks,
MOM. I was horrified. I must be the only kid that has heard “you’re going to
Disney World” and wept tears of despair. My mom tried to comfort me, but I
insisted that the family should go without me and I would never color again. I
retired.
With
the Disney trip booked, my parents realized they had to break me of my fear or
the plane ride would be a nightmare. A month before Disney World, they arranged
a road trip to Michigan. Again, I was terrified at the thought of being on the
road for 10 minutes let alone five hours. I contemplated running away, feigning
illness, calling the police, but settled on hiding in my grandparent’s home. As
the family packed up the Accord for Michigan, I slipped out the patio door and
ran over to my grandparent’s house (conveniently next door to our home). My
grandma answered, and with that, the water works immediately poured as I howled
about how scared I was. Being the nurturing caregiver she was (still is),
Grandma brought me inside with tender consolation. As I calmed down, I didn’t
hear the knock on the door. She went to answer the door, and I suddenly
realized it was one of my parents coming to collect me. I sprinted upstairs to
the attic, shut the door, and hid in the closet. Muffled voices turned to
footsteps that grew louder and louder.
“Kaaaatie!?”
my dad yelled at the top of the stairs. “It’s time to go!”
“Nooo,
I’m not going! You can’t make me!” Famous last words from a child in hiding. In
a matter of seconds, my sanctuary was discovered, and I was slung over my dad’s
shoulder. I cried, screamed, kicked, and punched to no avail. My grandma urged
him to let me stay seeing my distress. Dad knew better.
“She’ll
never get over this fear if we don’t push her. That trip to Disney World is
coming up, and hell if I’m gonna deal with this tantrum at an airport.” I was
dropped in the backseat next to my sister, and the door slammed shut with a
swift click of the locks. I immediately went to grab the handle— “Don’t even
think about leaving this car, young lady. You leave, I’ll tie you down next
time.” The words put my will into submission and I resigned to my fate. I was going
to have to poop on this trip—I just knew it! My mom came around a couple
minutes later and placed our dogs, Maggie and Ginger, onto my lap. Their little
jumps, sweet kisses, and wagging tails soon had me forgetting all about not
wanting to be in the car. So much so, that we were already five minutes away
from home. Surely, if two silly pugs can make a five-hour trip, so could I. And
if not, I guess I’d go on the side of the road with them.
I
don’t remember if I ended up having to go #2 on that road trip. And it didn’t
matter. Even though D-Day is the thing I remember most about that one Six Flags
trip, I realized the journey to your destination is one small part of the
bigger story. You can’t make new memories without taking the risk of getting a
bit messy along the way.
