Why sharing a hotel room with your kids will make you sympathise with animals eating their young

When I was a child, I remember going on a ten-day road trip with my parents. We had the best time ever. In the car, we’d sing songs, we’d learn songs, we’d play car games. Somehow, when I think about it now, I can’t remember giving my parents any trouble at all. At least, I can’t remember giving my parents the kind of trouble that Clint Edwards speaks of in his article for Scary Mommy:

Sharing a hotel room with kids looks like begging and pleading to visit the hotel pool even though you are exhausted from driving hours with kids screaming in the backseat for snacks, or asking how much further, or flipping out because their tablet died. The thought of going into a cold, echo-filled, hotel pool feels like absolute death, but you muster up the strength, slide your doughy 30-something ass into a bathing suit, and take them swimming because it’s easier than listening to them bitch.

It looks like turning on the TV to whatever the hell the kids want so you don’t keep disturbing other guests, and then listening to your children argue over watching My Little Pony or SpongeBob, because naturally they are both on at the same time, and everyone has an opinion, until both parents start screaming for everyone to get along and stop crying because we are on vacation.

It looks like one parent and one child sacked out, while the other kids are glued to the TV well after their bedtime, their eyes glossy and cold and ready to flip out if anyone suggests that they turn it off, so you just let them watch and settle in for a long night with blue TV light filling the room.

It looks like each parent sharing a bed with one or more children, which usually starts out sweet and snuggly, but ultimately turns into children sleeping at odd angles, and kicking and punching you in the boob, or the crotch, or worst of all, shoving their urine-soaked diaper-covered butt in your face at 2 a.m.

It looks like waking up well before dawn to the TV back on and the children tugging and begging for you to take them to the pool again. It looks like a crappy hotel breakfast of dried-out, half-cut, powder doughnuts and close to expired yogurt.

And once the night is over, and the bags are packed, and the van is loaded and you are checked out, you get to hit the road again, and dread going to look forward to another hotel, all the while wondering if all these family vacations are actually worth it.

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