Are We There Yet? - The Long Journey to Grandma's

You’ve loaded the sleepy children into the car and carefully tucked them in. They groan, roll over, and snore. You quick-check the house for locked doors, locked windows, turned-off faucets, and a light left burning in the front room. It seems almost sacrilegious to start the motor, and it coughs into the morning air like an old man clearing his throat. Slowly you back into the street, the tail of the car complaining metallically at the gutter. The headlights cut a roving arc across your neighbor’s lawn, and then stare down into the black street ahead of you.

You ease back a little. “Well, we’re on our way. Sure hope those sleepin’ beauties stay dead to the world for a-couple of hours anyhow.” You turn left. Proceed two blocks east. Right turn. At the end of the street you pick up the freeway entrance. Stop sign. And as you are ready to enter the freeway, a head pops up over the back of the front seat, and a small voice asks, “Are we there yet?”

You stop for gas, pull up to a restaurant, check into a motel at night or get a red light in some small town, and each interruption of the journey is embraced with the query, “Are we there yet?” A gesture of irritation, the normal reaction of most adults, will probably produce a few grins, as the answer is snapped, “No, not yet!”

At last all the miles have ground out under your wheels. The scenery has gone by in a big-as-life production. You’re in grandma’s town, and you’re turning the corner toward grandma’s house. You squirm a little, enjoying the luxury of being able to relax, which you haven’t done for four days. You smile at each other. “Good trip. We made good time.” You call over your shoulder, “O.K., kids, here we are, safe and sound. There’s grandma’s house. The big white one on the corner.” It’s as quiet as though you asked for volunteers for doing dishes. You look back, and they are curled up, sound asleep, on the seat.