Day Three

Last night, if you'll recall, after a grueling day of gasoline wars with the velociraptor, I opted for the wings and the Patron. This morning the raptor has somehow infiltrated my system and is making me pay once again for my transgressions. I feel horrible. Stomach cramps. Headache. Ugh. But, hey! Who am I to complain? Eh? I've got a nice, 500-mile drive across eastern Kansas and the whole of Missouri to look forward to in a truck that may or may not let me know its needs? Whoopee!

By the time we drag ourselves out of the hotel, we've endured a massive, seemingly unprovoked meltdown of epic proportions by Harper. She goes to pieces when it's suggested that she get some clothes on, prompting the following exchange:

J: Why are you crying?

H: Because you won't stop yelling at me!

J: No one's yelling at you, sweetie.

H: Yes. Yes, you are! That's all you're doing!

J: Honey, please stop crying.

H: See? There you go again!!!

This goes on for several minutes, until yours truly, always looking to be helpful, shows up to save the day:

J: Harper, honey. Please stop crying. Everything's okay.

H: (weeps uncontrollably)

J: Honey. Please

H: (more of the same)

R: (barging in) Harper. Harper! KNOCK. IT. OFF.

H: (weeping intensifies...she begins cowering in the bathroom)

J: Honey...

And then I say it. One of the TOP THREE things we all tell ourselves we will never, ever say to our children because a) it's not very nice; b) it doesn't help matters; and c) it just really makes no sense whatsoever. I say:

R: Damn it, Harper. I'm about to give you something to cry about!

No sooner does this come out of my mouth than I realize the full gravity of the situation. Not only have I become my own father, but I've overshot him. My own father never actually said stupid shit like that—he was above silly cliches for the most part (although a description of the Jim Cowden “sex talk” might seem to buck this trend, but that's a different chapter). I retreat, and consider the fact that Harper is five years old, on the road, uprooted from everything she's ever known or cared about, exhausted, hungry, and probably very, very scared about the whole thing despite her valiant efforts to put on a brave face for her morbidly insane parents. Ahhhh....I get it. I just find myself wishing I could get it BEFORE I open my big mouth.

I apologize to Harper. The whole time, Liam has been vacillating between hurling himself against any vertical object in the room (nothing is spared when he goes on a jag like this—beds, walls, dressers, humans are all equally valid targets) and trying to console his sister. Finally, after I tell Harper she can put the new camera around her neck and take it to the car, she relents, smiles, and all is well. This kid is far, far stronger than I am and I need to give her credit for that. This, I know.

When we get to the parking lot—lovely day in Salina! Already 90 degrees and humid, despite no apparent water source in a 500-mile radius!--Harper reminds me that I told her she could ride in the truck following Cleo's departure. I'm skeptical about this, mostly because she tends to be VERY high-maintenance on car trips between frequent bouts of motion sickness-induced puking and a constant need to switch movies or music. Also, the truck is not the most comfortable environment in which to spend one's day. It's noisy, bumpy, and the seats keep you stiffer than a Marine at attention while you drive. But a promise is a promise, and, given the last half hour, I'm in no position to argue. I take her princess car seat from the Mercury and we load it into the truck. On some level I'm sure she'll last about 20 minutes and then demand a transfer back to the relative luxury of the Mercury.

Nine hours later, Harper tells me she wants to ride in the truck again tomorrow. Not only has she survived the trip, she's thrived. She managed to sleep a little bit, to read, to sing to herself, to cram down almost an entire bag of Life Savers gummy rings, to avoid barfing, and to regale me with her burgeoning knowledge of the world whenever possible:

H: I have bug bites all over me.

R: I know. Yeah. Sorry about that.

H: No. It's okay, 'cause it helped me find out about mosquitos.

R: Whaddya mean?

H: Did you know that only the mom mosquitos bite?

R: Well, yes....

H: And they do this so they can bring blood back to the kid mosquitos?

R: Right...go on.

H: And then what's cool is that they kill the dads. (laughs deviously)

She touches on a variety of subjects, from how bees like to spread honey around their houses to assuring me that the vast field of corn she sees out the window holds exactly 21—no more or less, because she counted—corns. And I'm led to recall once again that she's my “special angel.” (Caution: this part may become a bit sappy for some of the more cynical among you.) Two years ago, when I was suffering from a MRSA infection that no one could say with any degree of confidence wouldn't be fatal, Harper stepped in during my recovery and plainly informed me that love—not medicine—was what I needed to get better. So she nursed me with exactly that—love. And it worked, once I allowed myself to trust her judgment. I dubbed her my special angel because she, of all the people working so hard on my behalf, was the one who cut through my stubbornness and despair to allow me to see the way back to health. Sometimes I forget the lessons she taught me during those dark months. But see...that's what makes this particular angel so special. No matter how hard I am on her, no matter how irrational, irritated, and intense I get, she calmly waits it out. Then, when she's confident I'm ready, she teaches me how to be her father. She does this again today, and we have a tremendous time in the dinosaur truck together.

My hangover subsides, my outlook brightens, and 500 miles doesn't seem quite long enough of a drive somehow. And, most importantly, I become even more resolute that this trip is about her and her brother far more than it is about me and J. We want nothing more than for our kids, and this includes the one who can only be with us part-time, than to have the opportunity to live extraordinary lives. I want them to grow up in a place where they learn that people from vastly different backgrounds can and do live in peace together, and that there's a whole world at their fingertips if they can just learn to perceive it. Mostly, though, we want them know that they are loved—deeply--and that as a family, we can conquer anything the world throws at us. All this, I get from the five year-old who is now snoozing next to me in the princess seat.

I hope she'll ride with me tomorrow.