The Five Stages Of Toddler Road Trip Grief

When my family and I decided to take a 10-hour road trip to Tenessee, we took all the necessary precautions to ensure that our journey would go as smoothly as possible. But still, even the best-behaved toddler’s unwillingness to sit in a car becomes overwhelmingly apparent around the fourth hour. It wasn’t long after we passed this psychological landmark of sudden meltdowns and shrill, screaming attempts to escape her car seat, that we realized that we had made a big, BIG mistake.

I know what you’re thinking, and trust me; we attempted every possible avenue of ease. Yes, we tried stopping at an Airbnb for a night on the ride up, but this ended up being a disaster in its own right, and therefore we decided to attempt the trip home in one go.

But much like the Titanic, our voyage was destined to be doomed from the start. And much like most traumatic events that require a multifaceted grieving process, traveling with a toddler proved itself to be no different. Thus, I welcome you to come and explore a little phenomenon I like to call: The Five Stages of Toddler Road Trip Grief.

Denial

This initial stage is full of frivolous deflection. Ten hours isn’t THAT long. After all, it’s just ONE day of traveling. We will make frequent stops at parks! We will eat our favorite snacks! We will blast Baby Shark on the car stereo! Plus, my daughter loves the car! She sleeps great in the car! This is fine. Everything is fine!

Anger

Reality slowly starts to creep in. My daughter keeps purposely throwing her cup of juice then screaming “JUIIIIICCCCCCEEEEE!!” in an attempt to get me to retrieve it. I comply, contorting my body to regain control of the sippy cup, pinching a nerve in my neck in the process. I relinquish it back to her. She chucks it again immediately after receiving the rescued cup. My eye begins to twitch.

Bargaining

I am becoming desperate. I offer her a fifth sugary cereal bar in an attempt to please her because, apparently, I’m not above placating my child with food. I turn up the volume of Wheels On The Bus. I SING Wheels On The Bus. We stop at a park and allow her to run around for an hour before dragging her rigid, uncompliant body back into the car. I let her feed the dog the Veggie Straws through his crate. It is anarchy. I allow it.

Depression

The ish has officially hit the fan. We’ve been in the car for over 7 hours. I unknowingly let my daughter sit in a pee-soaked diaper for 2 of those hours. I feel like a horrible mom. The dog has eaten twice his weight in Veggie Straws. He’s only 5 pounds, so that isn’t even that far of a reach. My neck still hurts. The juice cup is nowhere to be found. Sleep seems like a distant memory. I am confident I won’t make it. The chances of survival seem slim.

Acceptance

Alas, in this final phase, I reach acceptance. My car is a wreck, my daughter is bored and needs a bath, I am frazzled, and my normally calm husband is snippy and intolerable. We argue about leaving a plastic bag full of ice with beverages in it down by my feet. It’s spilling onto my shoes. He doesn’t care, insisting that his VitaminWater must remain cold. Our destination is only an hour away, but surely it will be the longest hour of our lives. Will we make it? Who knows. Who cares. This is life now. I solemnly vow never to leave my house again.