A gloriously imperfect road trip across time

By Mary Kay Roth

I imagined an idyllic road trip with my two grown kids, Josh and Anna.  After all, the three of us hadn’t traveled together in decades – at least not without grandchildren or significant others.

This would be special. For my 70th birthday present, Josh was taking Anna and me to my dream destination: the Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Colorado.

I even imagined the blog I would write, waxing poetic, an enchanted time of reconnecting, our arms wrapped around one another singing kum ba yah.  And they lived happily ever after.

Of course, by now I should know better.  Life never goes as planned.

The truth is we drove each other crazy. 

Apparently on long car trips Anna not only tailgates, she also tends to drive 95 mph (and faster).  Josh checks our ETA incessantly – I swear every 5 to 10 minutes – and if we’re running “behind plan” and I want to stop for a rest break, both my kids extol the benefits of driving straight through. 

Umm, no. I need to stop. NOW.

Indeed, on the road, we talked about past vacations and roared with laughter.  We shared the driving, shared our dream bucket lists. And we sang our favorite songs.  But for some inexplicable reason my kids were irritated by my tendency to blurt out lyrics when I didn’t really know the words. 

And, admittedly, I completely freaked out when Josh was navigating through a hailstorm while playing Rage Against the Machine, as I felt obligated to remind him of each and every potential danger lurking on the highway. In turn, he reminded me he had been driving for 25 years.

Hey, buster, who do you think taught you to drive?

Yep, pretty much annoyed the heck out of one another.

The relationship with adult children is a curious thing. I want to call it fragile, but that’s not quite true. Perhaps the word “complicated” is more accurate, those convoluted, knotty bonds of family.  

I mean, I have accumulated such incredible wisdom over the years, yet my children don’t want to hear any of my astute insights.

These are the children I gave birth to – nurtured – adored – raised.  We took car trips across the country playing I Spy, collecting lists of state license plates, drawing imaginary lines that divided them in the backseat.

Like it or not, we are tethered, woven together in the tapestry of our family’s collective memory. My love for them runs deep into the marrow of my bones. We all three share the same sense of humor – the same political bent – the same love of books, music, travel.  We are each filled with equal measures of passion and sarcasm.  

Yet suddenly these “children” of mine are fully grown humans dancing with the ups and downs of life in their own unique ways – intent on fiercely demonstrating they are independent and capable adults.

I feel like I launched them with grace. I’m having a little trouble letting go with grace. 

Exasperations aside, eventually we arrived at a wonderfully funky Airbnb in Colorado, dined on grocery store deli food and watched a marathon of Mission Impossible movies well into the night.

Next morning, we counted down to the evening concert as we counted down aggravations. Josh led us down the wrong turn on a grand mountain hike and we almost fell off a cliff. Anna decided to pretty much isolate, buried in a book, asking for a few moments of calm in her life. 

Ultimately, I was likely the greatest perpetrator of exasperation: “Do we know which Red Rocks entrance to take?  How do we know that’s the right entrance?  Are we leaving early enough?  What if they run out of parking spaces?  Do we need to plan where we’re going to sit?  And, omg, what if it rains?”

When they thought I wasn’t looking, Anna and Josh rolled their eyes, much like they did as teenagers.  “Mom, maybe you need to chant or something.  Maybe you need a drink.”

We did indeed stand under a slight drizzle while waiting in line for admittance into Red Rocks. But clouds lifted as dusk settled over that sacred space, and we danced away the night as the place came alive with music.

Every so often, I sat back to inhale the precious evening – and to gaze upon my kids. 

They are pretty fine humans. Josh is a high school principal.  Anna is a nurse practitioner. They both have better boundaries than I do. They apologize more easily. I’m astonished I brought such cool people into the world – proud of how they overflow with both integrity and laughter. 

The morning after the concert we hit the road for home. I asked to stop for coffee and Anna whispered to Josh that stopping for coffee – meant mom would inevitably have to stop again for restrooms.

“Well duh,” I whispered right back. 

Then, pedal to the medal, Josh and Anna sat in the front seat and chatted – I sat in back, quietly bathed in sweet reverie, remembering the many past trips we’d taken together. Walking the Narrows in Zion National Park.  Looking down over Paris on a rainy night at the Eiffel Tower. Surviving a crammed laundromat on a wet camping trip to Yellowstone. Getting stranded on an island in Michigan.  Walking mountain trails. Canoeing the Niobrara.  

These days Josh and Anna are very busy critters with families of their own.  The day after we return home from this trip, Josh will hop a train to see a baseball game. Two days after, Anna will take her daughters on vacation to California.

And I’m hit hard with the surreal reality that my children have so many more journeys ahead … so many places to go without me … so many destinations they will see – that I will not.

So, perhaps the real wonder of this road trip is that two adult kids have carved out time in busy calendars for this moment with their mom – the fact that we’re returning home, still speaking to one another – the miracle that we pretty much like each other, despite our quirks.

Sometime in our last few hours on the road, suddenly and spontaneously, Josh and Anna started talking about the 2025 schedule for Red Rocks. What bands would be playing?  What days? 

“Maybe again next year,” they said. 

Maybe.

And that, my friends, is a true happy ending.