Blowing A Fuse - RV Life Day #1

We survived the first day of RV living if not for the grace of God.

Packing up the trashcan on wheels, full of our shit, we cornered on two wheels heading out of our city neighborhood to a lesser civilization, just shy of our 9am goal.

It was 9:45 am and my husband and I were running low on fuel. With Starbucks in our future, we refused to brew a pot of caffeine, sparing little time for anything other than securing six bikes on the RV, a Herculean task of engineering prowess.

Somewhere between the Sellwood Bridge and I-5 we had our first pre-coffee battle. Having lived in Portland for four years I figured my hubby could find his way to the interstate heading south; this was clearly my first mistake. Never assume a man will ask for directions! We found ourselves in Multnomah Village somewhere between my posting a selfie sendoff on Instagram and my children complaining about the lack of Wi-Fi.

Glancing up from my iPhone I yelled “Holy Shit Clark!” followed his cursed “God dammit!” as loud as the RV roof crunch, scratching its way under the overhang of the vacant Jewish Community Center parking lot. Envisioning the AC unit sitting on the curb, I jumped out of the passenger side door expecting to see a crowd of Starbucks-caffeinated gawking spectators.

Luck was on our side again when we scared the kids into silence and my own 'Clark Griswold' mounted the RV ladder to survey the damage. “We forgot to close the vents,” he shouted before I yelled, “Kids, roll ‘em up!” from outside the new ‘Family Truckster’. By now, folks were beginning to notice, so I ducked under cover, safely inside, while my baby daddy took off for lattés, cold brews and apple juice boxes to douse the flames.

You could cut the tension with a knife as Waze directed us through the West Hills of Portland, over speed bumps to I-5 south. It was an uphill battle and I clenched my teeth praying the trashcan on wheels could make it. I figured the children were too afraid to ask for Wi-Fi as we all held our breath in silence. No sooner did the I-5 sign appear than my 13-year-old had the balls to ask for a hotspot.

Swallowing caffeinated courage, I had no choice but to blast our road trip theme song to the back of the bus, singing the extended version of Lindsey Buckingham’s ‘Holiday Road’ from National Lampoon’s Vacation at the top of my lungs. “Mom’s clearly lost it,” my 17- year-old daughter piped in as I demanded my son’s participation in exchange for a hotspot. Four minutes into the song, my son, hell bent on ‘Brawl Stars’ gaming, cracked the teensiest of smiles at the lunacy.

It was nearly smooth sailing down I-5 without a peep from the back end, until screen time ran out. A Covid-quarantined generation tied to social media and gaming may be our greatest hurdle this month outdoors as the Ellen Griswold in me envisions children swimming in crystal clear lakes, hiking National Monuments, and learning our nation’s history along the way. Dairy Queen, a natural sedative, proved a great distraction. Did you know RV’s can’t go through a drive-thru? Thankfully the RV owner gave us a heads-up as I donned my mask and ducked into the DQ grill to chill!

We arrived at Emigrant Lake campground after a ‘Forced Family Fun’ bike ride around Southern Oregon University’s vacated campus.

Insistent on blowing his parent’s last fuse, the same 13-year-old proceeded to cite his ‘Declaration of Children’s Rights’ from how he hates bike rides, to how he’s being forced to go on a month-long RV trip, to how he deserves more screen time. This from the third born child who was given first rights on RV beds! The kid who will sleep like royalty in a king-size bed perched above us minions. As I clandestinely imagined, natural selection ensued with the other three children threatening to dethrone him of his high and mighty realm above the RV cab if he kept complaining. The banter was music to the ears of this weary mother whose sleep has been interrupted for nearly two decades.

Hitching electricity and water to the RV campsite, we ultimately blew a fuse. I poured a glass of cabernet into my plastic cup to trouble-shoot the problem, scouring the RV instructions while my children reminded me we had drained all devices. No shit! Well, that happened too. Guess which kid was the first to clog the shitter?

Which came first, latex gloves in the bathroom, connecting the docking station to electronic devices, texting the owner of the RV or pouring another plastic cup of vino while my husband paced outside? My mother always reminds me I was crazy to have four kids, but she’s often underestimated my ‘Cray Cray’ super power.

Handing the phone to my husband after I dialed the owner of the 35-foot monstrosity, I headed to the bathroom armed with a plastic spoon and DQ cup in hand. Emerging unscathed I took another swig, swallowing disgust like a mother, I attacked the power chords with determination.

No wonder my kids were weary, it’s a sweltering 90 degrees in the way back with the windows shut tight. You’ve got to be frickin’ glued to screen-time not to notice the sweat dripping from your brow or the dogs panting canine breath on your lap!

Like a beacon from above, the lights flashed on and the air conditioning began to roar, after 'My Clark' flipped the switch. 'Hallelujah, Praise be to God', we will not die on the open prairie tonight! I could hear the angels singing, and my children’s laughter as they plugged in iPads, iPhones, laptops and Air Pods, sucking electricity from the teat of the mother-ship, draining voltage as if there was no tomorrow.

We froze our Asses off last night in sweet success, knowing we would be recharged by morning. 

This morning as I sit in a field of thistles and prairie dogs overlooking Emigrant Lake, the lingering aroma of my husband dumping the shitter, I drink my hot mug of coffee first as I look forward to another Adventure in Motherhood with Ellen Griswold optimism. Why do you think I birthed this family circus? Next stop California!