His best friend in Portland was in his class the first three days, a child whom we met through the Suzuki teacher-who-must-not-be-named, but her mother has pulled her out of the kindergarten class, because the kindergarten teacher didn’t speak Spanish very well. The mother, one of my good friends, whom I admire and trust, is a native Spanish speaker, and her daughter is already brilliantly, fluently bilingual. And I understand her frustration, but don’t share it. It’s just sort of one of those weird fate things to be going through this with this friend, because she was frustrated with the violin teacher months before I was, and stuck it out because she trusted me…

This is how the school is set up: there is a class of native English speakers who are learning Spanish as a second language, and a class of native Spanish speakers learning English as a second language. And when the kids achieve a certain degree of literacy, reading and writing in their native language, they get switched over to the other language, so when he can read and write in English, my son will begin learning to read and write in Spanish, switching to the other teacher, the one who teaches in Spanish all day every day. So, right now he’s getting some Spanish vocabulary from somebody who doesn’t speak Spanish perfectly. I have to admit, she still speaks better than I do.

I am doing that thing where I feel guilty for not being as upset by a situation as, in my head, a ‘good mother’ would be… I am grateful he’s getting even inadequate Spanish. My sixth grader has so far gotten NO second language instruction (I suppose you could count the sign language in his kindergarten…) Still Søren, my kindergartner, is devastated to have his friend leave the class. Sigh.

I know the school isn’t a perfect situation. None of my kids is getting a perfect education. But you know? It’s good enough. They’re being taught by people who are not perfect teachers but who care, who show up and do their best, who are sacrificing and not making much money for the hours that teaching just requires, and it’s a hard job. And I don’t know if I am accepting it because I’m such a glass-half-full person, or because I have a lot faith in my kids and how I’ve raised them and in the universe to provide the things we need the most or if I am just lazy/exhausted/stretched thin with four kids . Does it sound like a rationalization if I say I am trying to put my energy into things like making music with them, sharing a love of books with them, having fun bicycling and hiking with them, working at marriage and at being the kind of family I want them to grow up in?

Here’s my little philosophy education curse kicking in, too: I have to ask myself what my reason is for sending my kids to school. My father sent me a copy of John Taylor Gatto’s Dumbing Us Down last spring right before he retired from teaching high school, and a lot of Gatto’s arguments about the destructive power of schools to crush kids’ spirits and curiosity and teach them all of the wrong things, do make sense, but it still doesn’t fit exactly with how I am feeling: I liked school, my kids like it, and it’s good for them to be exposed to world views and communication styles and ways of being besides our own. They are smart enough to sort out what they want to keep for themselves. I send them to school so they can experiment with self-hood in an environment besides our family, and we get to see the sixth-grader developing this intense moral reasoning and code of loyalty and justice, a willingness to speak up for the things he believes in, our third-grader happily fitting in with a bunch of smart and personable good friends, writing really creative and imaginative things, and for how sort of dreamy and distracted he can be at home, it’s surprising to see that in the context of school he comes across as pretty disciplined and diligent; who knows what I’ll see the other two do?

I don’t pretend that education and schooling are the same thing. So it makes sense that the point of education is not the same as the point of schooling. I know I haven’t yet come out and stated “I believe the point of education is X, the point of schooling is Y” I just have a sense of them being different. I am pretty sure that the point of education is not getting into the right college, getting the right career, making more money than you need. In fact I think the question of the “point” of education is about as meaningful as the “point” of food — we’re naturally inclined towards it, it serves to enable us to do scores of other things, and it’s enjoyable in and of itself. Maybe I just feel fortunate that the schooling hasn’t gotten in the way of the kids’ educations so far? And the air I am breathing as a mother is trusting myself, that if and when a problem comes up, we will move to find the best solution we can for our child. And that right now I am not taking melting down every day after school as an indication of a real problem.

Perhaps you have run with the bulls in Pamplona, maybe you’ve hunted the rhinoceros in Borneo, participated in the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, scaled Mt. Kilimanjaro, trekked to the source of the Nile, or seen the glaciers of Patagonia, but no matter how tough, how adventurous you think you are, we want to prepare you for the ultimate adventure:  The Family Road Trip!  Do not go unprepared.  We have listed some of the major pitfalls that can take out even the most experienced of adventurers, and the best approaches for dealing with them.  If you read this and still decided to undertake this risky venture, well, you can’t say we didn’t warn you.  Our slogan?  “Travelling with kids, all of the work of being at home and none of the conveniences!”

Pitfall #1

The Potty Stop

There is a law that even though you have made everyone visit the bathroom before getting strapped in in the minivan, sometime between wedging every child in with all of the gear that you, the prepared parent could shoehorn in in anticipation of their (almost) every need and your hitting an actual highway on-ramp you will hear the words “I need the potty.  BAD!”

Solution #1

Resignation.  Heartier souls may carry the coffee can potty kit in the back of the minivan, but it will inevitably be at the bottom of all the other gear you’ve brought, and, to be quite honest, once that can has been filled, you are going to have to find the delicate way to empty it,  a prospect at which even the toughest have quailed.  So, bite the bullet and pull into the gas station/convenience store, where you are going to run smack into pitfall #2, being…

Pitfall#2

Snacks

Kids are smart.  They know that their father feels it violates the laws of capitalism to stop at a gas station with a van that was carefully filled with gas in preparation for this trip the night before just for the sake of using the facilities.  They know that their father loves snacks that come in fun and interesting colors and flavors, from tiny balls, to melt-in-your-hand-not-your-mouth goodness, which as a bonus melt in the floormats, also, to smells nature never intended from bananas or watermelons.

Solution #2

Resignation.  Yeah, you might have packed healthy snacks like apples and string cheese and crackers.  These aren’t going to compete with the Dolly Madison ouevre.  So you can comfort yourself with the notion that this is a special occasion, not how you eat every day.  And with the fact that the paternal unit of the family is conditioning children to always whine “But remember that time you bought us the super king-sized candy bar?” every time he enters a store with them, which will give you the chance to give a smug little “You made this bed, you lie in it” shrug, which can be SO satisfying.  More satisfying than that twinkie youre about to eat, even.  Besides, you’re going to be the one detailing the inside of the van when you get home, so you might as well enjoy the bounties of the convenience store before you get busy scrubbing the unidentifiable melting mess.

Pitfall #3

Are We There Yet?

Having exhausted the bathroom and snack avenues of entertainment, your child instinctively knows it is time to turn to the “are we there yet?” entertainment portion of the trip.  After all, road trips are Bo-Ring.

Solution #3

Resignation.  You can use this as a chance to hone your with with brilliant answers like “Yes, we’re going to have fun frolicking with those cows!  Just be careful where you step. ok?”

Disclaimer:  You model smart aleck-y responses like this, and guess what those eager minds back there are eagerly learning?  But hey, missy, you made your bed, you lie in it.

Pitfall #4

The Golden Arches

When your kids are bored with asking are we there yet and steadfastly unimpressed with your witty answers, they may in the brief quiet tune into the siren call of their own factory-installed Golden Arches Sensors, such that a sixteen month old strapped into a rear-facing infant seat magically becomes aware of the McDonald’s 4 miles ahead and shrieks for you to stop.

Solution #4

Resignation.  Really, the food isn’t that bad.  And maybe the happy meal toys will keep the children entertained, since the stacks of books, coloring books, electronic noisy toys and your attempts to start a family sing-along just like you remember from your own child have done nothing.

Pitfall #5

Carsickness

So no child of yours has ever had carsickness before, and you curtly dismiss the “I’m miserable” with the cynical sureness that it it is just one more ploy to keep you from getting where you are going. So at the rest stop you roll your eyes and grudgingly give the child the last of the water in your water bottle, telling him to walk around, get fresh air, he’ll feel better.  And then he staggers up to you and throws up at your feet.

Solution #5

Resignation.  What can you do?  You feel guilty? Motherhood _IS_ guilt, didn’t you get that memo?

Pitfall #6

The Backseat Wars

This is an extension of the toy wars, started at home, with the added fuel of body parts touching the wrong half of the bench seat, the “she’s kicking my seat” wars, the “she’s singing” wars, the “she doesn’t like my singing and that hurts my feelings” wars, and the “she made a face” wars.  All accompanied with an appeal to your sense of justice, your power to make the offending sibling stop.

Solution #6

Resignation.  They don’t get along at home.  What makes you think that putting every body into a metal box of 150 cubic feet hurtling along at 70 miles an hour was going to magically change that?

Pitfall #7

The Incessant Questions

From the scientific (why is the sky blue?) to the personal (why can I see the skin on the  back of Daddy’s head?), from the legal (why do Mommies and Daddies get to stay up late and we have to go to bed?) to the medical (why am I not supposed to have put that bean up the baby’s nose?) there is no question you can be sure of not hearing, except maybe “Why don’t you relax and enjoy the scenery while I quietly entertain myself back here and maybe take a nap.

Solution #7

Resignation.  It’s such a brief period in their lives when they think you know everything.  In ten to fifteen years when they are convinced you know nothing, you’re going to look back at this time and sigh with longing.  So enjoy it.

Pitfall #8

The Forgotten Item

The forgotten will be an item that is completely irreplaceable, a lovey given by  a now-deceased great aunt at the child’s birth or the like.  Or if it is something that can be gotten at the next Wal-Mart, well it just won’t be the same.

Solution #8

Resignation.  What are you going to do?  The unfortunate law is  that the more irreplaceable an object is the greater the likelihood it was left in the branches of a tree watching you picnic at a rest stop you will never ever pass again, so if it was left at home, be grateful for that.

Pitfall #9

The Sleeping Baby

The baby falling asleep will inevitably lead to one or more older siblings discovering an intense need to stop again for the bathroom.  And the cessation of motion will set off the baby like the bomb in that movie, Speed, where a bomb will go off if the bus’s speed drops below fifty miles an hour.

Solution #9

Resignation.  Perhaps if the non-driving parent were a Hollywood stuntman, you could attempt to do a roll out of the minivan as it circles the gas station parking lot, but modern carseats make this impracticable with the older sibling.  Which leaves you on the fork of a dilemma, soiled clothes and furious child or screaming infant for the next forty minutes?  Either way, it isn’t pretty.

Pitfall #10

The Sleeping Sibling

This is just the converse of the sleeping baby.  As soon as the whining stops and you breathe a sigh of relief that the older sibling has drifted off, the baby will develop one those needs that require Immediate Attention, an exploding diaper, a need to nurse, a worrisome cough that you don’t dare investigate.  And the moment the van stops the older child will immediately do a re-enactment of pitfalls  #1 -8.

Solution #10

Resignation.  Athletic and flexible mothers might think they could attempt the “changing the diaper without removing the infant from the carseat” maneuver or the breastfeeding while leaning over the carseat hoping that the shaded windows give some privacy , but it’s going to require breaking seatbelt laws, uncomfortable contortions, and the high probability that even on an empty highway late at night, there will be sudden braking throwing you against the windshield as you try to climb into the backseat over the litter of backpacks, juice boxes, and chirruping electronic toys to reach the baby.  It really is not advised.

Pitfall #11

The Used Condom in the Motel Parking Lot

While you are busy trying to get all of the gear you couldn’t live without for two days into the hotel room, do not be surprised if a child runs up shouting “Look at the balloon I found!”

Solution #11

Resignation.  Or if you are feeling a little at odds with the person who booked this “Travel Bargain!” over the internet,  you could suggest that, since your hands are full right now, maybe daddy would be willing to blow it up.

Pitfall #12

The Un-Baby-proofed Hotel Room

You know hotel rooms were designed by the childless, because the glass carafe to the coffee maker is perched three feet above a hard tile floor, the electrical outlets almost have “Play with me, I’m fun” signs, and the phone is kept at the height where toddlers just learning to pull up can reach them on a bedside table.  It’s a bonus to have kids who figure out how to order pay-per-view.

Solution #12

Resignation.  Your alternative is staying at the un-baby-proofed home of a relative and getting to hear about the irreplaceable “Precious Moments” figurine your child broke and tried to conceal breaking by flushing the pieces down the toilet, flooding the bathroom, at all family gatherings for the next thirty years.

Pitfall #13

Getting There Means You’re Only Halfway Done!

Yes, that’s right, you get to do it all again to get back home.  Disheartening isn’t it?  Almost enough to make you consider living in the un-baby-proofed hotel room indefinitely.  After all, there’s cable, and somebody else makes up the bed.

Solution #13

Resignation.  Or buying the kids all greyhound bus tickets and promising to pick them up at the bus station when you get back home.

Please stop! I don’t know who you are, but there is clear evidence that someone has, behind my back, been spoon-feeding the precocious darlings some B.F. Skinner. I expect any day, to be rifling through their backpacks and find a pamphlet “Training Your Parents in 10 Easy Steps” with beginner level steps like:
1. Wait for the moment when the parental unit is clearly relaxed and not thinking about you and choose that moment to torture your brother until he screams loud enough for the neighbors to surely contemplating calling Child Welfare.
2. Make it clear that the person who does most of the picking up in the house understands that the inevitable consequence of time spent with a computer is a bucket of really tiny lego pieces dumped in the kitchen.
3. Try getting up before your parents are awake and entertaining your little brother by flushing toys down the toilet, and then say “But we were playing quietly so you can sleep because I love you!”
4. The phone ringing is your bell for snack time.
5. If you behave atrociously enough at the grocery store, then your parents will find themselves willing to make catsup soup for dinner rather than take you shopping.
6. The sound of the vacuum cleaner is your cue to do science experiments in the bathroom sink. Clean-up in the bathroom is your cue to take crackers into the living room.
7. Sleep deprivation is your friend. Your parents will have neither judgement nor will power left when they are tired enough.
8. There is no reinforcement like intermittent reinforcement. So some days give your mother an hour of reading peacefully while you play sweetly with your brothers, and other days every time you see her glancing longingly at the book discover an “emergency”: scream about a bug only you can see, worry about volcanoes, lose your favorite toy dinosaur (bonus points for down the toilet) experiment with ways of pouring your own cereal, milk, and just for variety’s sake, try sweetening that cereal with maple syrup, making sure that it’s conspicuously all over the kitchen.
9. Make sure you reward behaviors you want to encourage, so every grudging concession to letting you watch tv or play video games that she swore would never enter her house should get her an hour of sanity-saving peace, quiet, and order.
10. If you slip and let her find the pamphlet, for all of our sake don’t let her have time to blog about it, because we surely don’t want word to spread. Remember, loose lips sink the Lego ships that you built with all of the coveted red bricks that your brother wanted.

See, I’ve been reduced to trying to write cutesy parenting humor, because every other serious thought I’ve had in the last three days has been interrupted by calls to referee who-started-its and the dread sentence, rising on a wail “But it was an ACCIDENT!” I know a sense of humor is the most important tool I have in parenting, but it feels like such a damn cliché, and it’s been done so much better already. But then, maybe I am just subject to forces much bigger than I am.

I’ll see you sometime early next week when I’ve recovered from camping.

Good, penitent I, I try faithfully to attend my Sunday morning menu-making, grocery list generating, best-intentioned ritual — only demonic forces, then, remain as a plausible explanation of how at the unholy hour of 5:15 pm I find my minivan drawn into a line of cars oozing through the grocery store parking lot, desperate for a parking space that won’t require me to drag a two-year-old forcibly by the wrist five hundred meters past puddles and irresistible shiny things lying on the ground — oh, the magic of broken beer bottles! And I look around at the other zombie mom shoppers, their children surreptitiously pinching each other or outright throwing themselves on the ground in front of my shopping cart, and recognize that I am fully and completely doomed.

Yes, a demonic force, no hyperbole, I resist, I stroll, casually, confidently towards the elysian fields of good intentions, pyramids of polished and unblemished apples and coddled, misted greens that promise never to fade or wilt. I am going to make a beautiful salad tonight! And surely if I find the right way to prepare kale my three year old will see the error of his pizza-grilled-cheese-and-chicken-nugget-only ways and come to the light. This time I will not succumb to forces emanating from the ominous vortex at the center of the store, the happy humming of the refrigeration units the mists of condensation swirling against the glass doors of the freezers.

Here I add that I have a guide slightly less charming than Virgil in the person of that creative and dreamy child accompanying me. To think, I once thought that dreaminess and creativity were charming traits in a child, qualities I hoped for in the child in my belly, with secret plans to nurture and cherish all that potential. Only tonight when he steps carefully only on the beighe tiles, explaining that blues are water and oranges are lava, it not only fails to charm me, but apparently does nothing for the heavyset woman behind us ready to do jam her cart into my heels so she can get to the Froot Loops aisle faster.

Now we catalog the seven deadly sins of grocery shopping: 1) Envy is glancing covetously at the shopping basket of the woman five years younger than me, thin and not wearing sweats, but, oh, professional-looking clothes, shoes that shout out poise rather than comfort. Her cart seems — childless! Gourmet cheeses and a ridiculously thin baguette, champagne grapes and fancy bottles of water, and vegetables, that, were they to appear on the the character-emblazoned plastic unbreakable plates in front of any of my children would cause heads to spin and ominous voices to emanate a lá The Exorcist. 2) Gluttony: oh, too easy. How many forms does chocolate come in? 3) Anger: well, now it is my own offspring with surreptitious pinching and throwing themselves down on the floor and I can feel the heavy-set Froot Loops grabbing cow rolling her eyes behind my back — which, by the way, offends my 4) Pride, because I am a good mother, dammit! 5) Greed is the sale price on something I don’t need, but I save money buying two… 6) Lust is the senuous pleasures offere in the aisle of overpriced personal care items, the red lipstick that, in this seductive lighting, promises to transform me into that desirable, young childless woman, who — yes, she buys muesli rather than anything manufactured by General Mills! and I ignore the little voice in my head that tells me I’ll try putting it on before carpool in the morning and wipe if off because it looks ’slutty’, a voice which I must here interject is far easier to ignore than the tugging on my jacket, “Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom. Now!”

And in the interruptions that characterize my life now, I drag you, dear reader along with my four offspring, to the shadowy, secret corridor at the back of the store, at least I think this is where the poor employee in the produce section who, it turns out, speaks no English, was pointing in response to my embarrassed and apologetic “Excuse me?” And I can’t take the cart with me, as brother gets idea from brother and I realize I have to change a diaper and the case in my purse is, shoot, of course, out of wipes, and then waiting, and waiting, as the older boys who would die of mortification before setting foot in the women’s restroom take so long that I am quite sure there’s a child molestor in the men’s room, and, looking around to make sure no one’s watching I press my ear to the door and hear water running, “Stop that!” “No you stop!” “I’m telling Mom!” and figure no one is THAT perverted.

Finally, finally, we trudge back to where our shopping car was, only some helpful and efficient employee must have mistaken it for abandoned and reshelved our groceries — the endless doing and undoing that makes up life with small people! Which is how we find ourselves in the frozen center of the maze — and is it exhaustion or 7) sloth, me reaching for the gaudy colors of the box of frozen corn dogs?