Hugo lays curled up in his small corner of the motor-home floor. I don’t think he knew this was what he was signing up for with this family.
There are things about this three-month journey with my family in 300 square feet of house on wheels that simply won’t be caught on camera.
Like when my curly haired three-year-old runs out of the bathroom yelling, “Agua, agua!” Her cries don’t give any clear indication as to why water is suddenly running out from underneath the bathroom door. I draw the door open to see an overflowing plugged sink, pouring over cabinets and flowing into the kitchen.
Then there are times of undoing with what seems to be no cause at all—like when the bed over the driver’s seat won’t lift and we are trying to get on the road after 24 hours of trials and miles.
There are times of laughter. Like when I fall into the toilet while trying to apply my makeup while the motor-home is driving and when my daughters’ put new words to Hamilton’s tunes, but saying how much she misses North Carolina.
There is stress. Like a teenage daughter begging to go home so she can do her schoolwork in peace. Looking at my cellular usage on my new phone and wondering how we already got to 97 GB. Kids screaming, and a child whose bit her brother, but there’s not really a good place to put her in a time out.
And there are the thoughts going through my mind that will never be captured or even heard aloud. “This felt like the right thing to do… but was it a mistake? What if in my ‘we can do it’ attitude I lost the reality that it may not be feasible to have 5 people live, work, and school in this small of a space.”
There is no escaping each other, both in moments of high emotion and melancholy. We know where each others’ mental breaker boards are at all times.
There are immediate changes I have seen in myself. Asking questions and listening instead of directing. Speaking in a calmer as sweeter voice. Doing practically anything to keep my kids entertained. Letting my son flip a small rubber chicken toy at my hat as a target—while I’m wearing it. Ignoring my phone while I indulge in reading to my son his first chapter book—amazed he wants to hear more even though pictures are scarce.
These are moments only observed by a dog. They probably won’t get placed in the memory book or recalled even in a few weeks time, but what will remain is the change.
Doing something hard. Doing it together.
So if we cross paths with you on this trip, or if we see you when we come home, take a moment to sit with our dog. Ask him about what he saw in this motor-home. I think he’ll have quite the stories to tell. If he’ll remember.
