Parenting
A Cross-Country Adventure (With Three Wild Kids)
By Jordan Miller
Updated: May 27, 2021
Originally Published: March 20, 2015
I’ve shared some wild ideas with my partner during late-night conversations, but suggesting “Let’s drive to Cleveland” might just top the list. Now, Cleveland isn’t a bad place; it’s my hometown and one of the more appealing cities in the U.S. Maybe not the most appealing, but at least it ranks higher than many on Forbes’ Most Dangerous Cities list. However, the journey from our home in San Diego to Cleveland stretched a daunting 2,400 miles. Was it possible? Sure. Was it wise, considering we’d unintentionally welcomed three kids into our lives in the last three years? Not really.
Our first-day goal was to reach Phoenix. My partner, Mia, and I were eager to indulge in a one-night stay at a four-star resort for about 65 bucks—a typical summer rate in Phoenix due to the sweltering heat. We also thought the kids could manage the five-hour drive: a bit of napping, maybe two hours of screen time, some tears soothed by bribes of sugar, and we’d be there before we knew it. Yeah, right.
Not long into the trip, chaos erupted. All three boys were wailing and shouting—nonstop. Normally, we could pacify them with a toy or a snack, but neither seemed to interest them that day. Our only hope, as voiced by our almost three-year-old, the self-appointed leader of the group, was to heed his cries of “I wanna get out!” and pull over.
After a brief stop to stretch and grab a bite at a less-than-appealing In-N-Out, we hit the road again. Our two oldest boys, seemingly pleased with the peace offering of “French fries,” showed a momentary agreement to cooperate for the remaining three hours. And I genuinely believe they tried. They’re good kids, and I’m not just saying that because of the tax deductions. But just 15 minutes later, our fragile agreement disintegrated.
We were five people crammed into a 6 x 15 Mazda minivan filled with luggage and noise. The boys’ relentless screaming was driving me insane. I turned to Mia, saying, “Should we just turn back?” Neither of us had the guts to respond. I felt utterly powerless. All I could think was, “Just get to Phoenix…just reach Phoenix.” That’s when I spotted flashing lights in my rearview mirror.
As an eight-year-old, I had been locked in a police car for riding on the back of a friend’s moped. A few years later, I was forced to my knees by the police for simply walking home from a school dance. At 17, I was wrongfully accused of theft at a Walmart and shoved against a cop car. The officer warned me, “If you run, I’ll beat you up,” before calling the local Foot Locker to check if my sneakers were stolen. When I was finally released, he complimented my “good speaking skills.” At 34, it seemed fitting to receive another reminder of my standing in the criminal justice system.
I assumed the position of the black man pulled over in the middle of nowhere with a white woman: hands on the steering wheel, eyes forward, licking my lips to prepare for a shift from African American Vernacular English to Standard American English, and, of course, the obligatory fake smile. The officer shone his flashlight into the van and asked for my documents.
“Why were you driving so fast?” he inquired.
“How fast was I going, sir?”
He looked at me with skepticism. “87.”
I glanced at Mia, trying to mask my fear as the cop returned to his vehicle with my license. “What speed did he say?” she asked, unable to hear over the ongoing chaos in the back.
“Well, he said 87, but I doubt I was going that fast…” I thought, calculating the potential ticket costs. This could easily rack up to $400.
“Where are you headed?” he asked.
“Ohio, but just Phoenix tonight, sir.”
He surveyed the pandemonium in the back seat. Not even the law could silence these little rebels. “I’m just going to issue you a fix-it ticket. Update your driver’s license to your current address within 30 days.”
With a newfound commitment to obeying speed limits, we finally arrived in Phoenix four hours later, around midnight. The kids were completely out. We carried them along with an excessive amount of luggage to our suite. Relieved and somewhat bonded through our poor judgment, Mia and I decided to raid the minibar. One drink turned into two, and soon we were indulging in “adult activities.” Just as I started to unwind, our three-year-old strolled in, confusion written all over his face. Mia quickly jumped away, while I sat there in the buff, grinning back at him. Happy parents, happy kids.
As we traversed Arizona and New Mexico, we developed a system to make the journey somewhat tolerable. I took the wheel most of the time. Next to me, we stored essentials: a portable toilet and a cooler. Mia sat in the second row, stretching her back to soothe the older boys while rocking the newborn’s car seat with her other hand.
We aimed to avoid small towns, reaching a major city each day. We stopped every couple of hours at malls and random parks, giving the kids a chance to run around—or better yet, to relieve themselves, since nothing beats the discomfort of being stuck in a seat while nature calls. From Phoenix, we reached an unexpectedly quiet Albuquerque, where the college students were replaced by an alarming number of grasshoppers. We checked into the hotel around 11 p.m., brought the place to life with tantrums and bed-jumping, and capped off the night with some greasy but satisfying takeout.
We tried to leave Albuquerque first thing in the morning but faced delays courtesy of the boys. Something about waking up in an unfamiliar room—or perhaps just waking up at all—sent them into a frenzy. They pulled hair, bit each other over toys, and threw themselves to the ground in protest. Our solution? We let them ride on the luggage cart as I pushed it, exchanging nervous glances with the hotel staff.
After our delayed departure, we hit the highway. We had been on the road for over 30 hours, and everything began to blend together. The blacktop looked the same, and the chain restaurants lining the highway seemed endless. Reaching that day’s destination, Oklahoma City, felt increasingly unlikely.
We decided to stop in Amarillo, Texas, just in time for the annual Texas Longhorn Cattle Drive. A diverse crowd—skinny, heavyset, and varying shades of white—gathered in lawn chairs, cheering for the enormous, seemingly docile cows. I had hoped to see a kid with a lasso and a pistol, but no such luck. Initially, the kids were intrigued, but soon the eldest had a meltdown because I wouldn’t let him ride the cows. “They don’t like to be touched,” I explained. “Yes, they do! I wanna ride the cow!” I had to physically remove him from the sidewalk. We wrapped up our stop by turning a previously quiet Italian restaurant into a chaotic mess before hitting the road on I-40.
We reached Oklahoma City well past midnight, implementing our refined hotel check-in strategy. I’d drop Mia at the entrance to fetch the room keys, then she’d return to grab the baby while I turned on the van’s flashers and carried the toddlers, hoping they wouldn’t wake. After unloading the car completely, I collapsed on the bed, pondering where to find beer while whispering to Mia to keep her awake.
That night, Mia fell asleep, but I ventured out to a 7-Eleven that sold beer until 2 a.m. I bought two tall boys and drank myself into a stupor in the dark. The stress and physical toll of the journey began to fade, along with my attitude. The constant shouting at the kids from the driver’s seat, the naive hope that a week-long drive would be easier than a six-hour flight, the endless packing and unpacking, and Mia’s incredulous glances at my insistence to push through the tears—all of it would be a source of laughter for years to come. We were fortunate to have the time and resources for this trip—though we had much more of the former than the latter. “These are the good old days,” I mused, trying to convince myself.
St. Louis was our next destination, an eight-hour drive from Oklahoma City, which could easily stretch to six hours with kids. Getting to St. Louis felt like a significant step toward Cleveland, as the two cities are linked through a shared history of urban decay and segregation. There’s a mix of new development and enduring hope, but the ongoing population decline results in fewer taxpayers, leading to reduced services and, for many, a compromised quality of life.
After navigating through rough neighborhoods and past panhandlers, we finally reached our hotel in downtown St. Louis, right as a Rod Stewart concert was letting out. Drunken concertgoers filled the streets, exuding energy as they celebrated. I wished to valet the van, but not at a price equivalent to a third of our hotel room. We found self-parking, but of course, the kids woke as soon as we exited the vehicle. The hotel was connected to a mall, which sounded great—until we realized the entrance closed with the mall itself. Luckily, a kindly Rod Stewart fan let us in.
Once inside, the boys went wild, bouncing on beds and standing on the large window sill. Their excitement reminded me of a family trip from my childhood. We were supposed to visit Disney World but ended up nowhere past Atlanta—a Red Roof Inn in Georgia was the extent of our adventure, but that was all we needed as kids. The room had beds to jump on and cable channels only available during free promotional periods. It ranked among my most cherished childhood memories, alongside winning a Clydesdale model horse in a first-grade Monopoly tournament and my crush on a girl named Sandra that my dad humorously commented on. Then it struck me: my kids wouldn’t even remember this trip.
The following afternoon, we finally arrived in Ohio, first venturing out to the rural outskirts to see Mia’s family and various animals. A few days later, we reached Cleveland. The weather was surprisingly reminiscent of San Diego. Three generations of our family gathered on my parents’ front porch, engaging in the quintessential Midwestern pastime of gossiping about one another and anyone who passed by. The boys put on a great show for their grandparents, who couldn’t help but laugh, exclaiming, “Look at their little behinds!” Mia and I kept the atmosphere light with friendly banter, punctuated by jokes and shared stories.
In summary, our adventurous road trip across the country with our three lively kids was filled with moments of chaos, laughter, and the realization that while the journey was overwhelming, it was also a chance to bond as a family. We navigated through the ups and downs of travel, and although the kids may not remember the specifics, the experiences we created together would last a lifetime.