The Longest Trip
22 years traveling the road of parenthood
Twenty-two years ago, give an hour an a half, I started the most incredible trip of my life: I birthed CJ and became a parent. You know, the super talented and dedicated art school student who’s living their best life and being their delightfully weird self as an adult with their own life which, thankfully, they allow to overlap with mine.
CJ didn’t inherit the traveling gene, despite being due on my travel-loving grandmother’s birthday. They share a name and a lot of skills and quirks, but I don’t see CJ ever packing up a camper and hitting the road with their entire extended family, or climbing into the cab of an 18-wheeler for Christmas on the road with their beloved like Granny did. And that’s fine. CJ has plenty of their own things that they’re making their own as they get to know who they are as an adult.
But when CJ was four, they used to get in a big box in the kitchen, announce we were flying to Hawaii, and launch themselves down the basement stairs on the most turbulent short flight ever experienced.
The summer of 2011, when CJ was seven, they declared that they wanted to see the Jungle Room at Graceland. I blame The Beatles, because CJ adored them, and learned they were influenced by Elvis, thanks to our favorite kids’ book series, which led to reading the Elvis book and getting the details about Graceland.
We didn’t have anything planned that summer. Plus, our beloved basset hound Chloe passed that spring. We needed some distracting fun. CJ wants to see the Jungle Room? Well, Toots, let’s go to Memphis!
Being less than a five-hour drive from our home, Memphis was the perfect mom-and-kid road trip. They stayed occupied with making movies with their stuffed animals in the backseat while I drove. Plus, it’s such a quick and easy drive that we were able to go straight to Sun Studio for ice cream and the tour when we got to town.
Taking CJ to Memphis felt like the first opportunity to show CJ who I am in addition to being their mom. It’s a place where I have a lot of memories, and its heart beats with one of my favorite things in the world that I wanted to be a part of CJ’s world: music.
We also hit the Stax Museum where we danced, sang, and possibly broke some federal copyright laws.
Seven was the perfect age to road trip with CJ. Old enough to adjust to long stretches of highway and hotel beds, young enough for everything new to them to be touched by magic. Also, old enough to turn loose with a camera, but still innocent enough to get away with the occasional federal crime.
CJ, like their mama, was enthralled with the Otis Redding potion of the museum. We stayed close to each other but took the exhibit at our own paces. That is, until I realized that CJ was using the camera to record the multimedia exhibits so they could save the Redding songs that were playing.
As you can hear, I tried to keep them within the law. And you better believe I caved like a wet cardboard box in the rain when we got to the gift shop and CJ asked if they could have an Otis Redding CD.
And then there was Graceland, and the Jungle Room. Same as they ever were.
I’d sworn that I never needed another visit to Graceland. I’d gone twice, once during my first solo grown-up road trip, and again during my 30th birthday trip. The first time the tour was led by a human being. We talked and laughed, told our Elvis stories, acted like we could see him in an upstairs window, and had the kind of fun with strangers that only happens when you travel.
By my second visit the tour guides were gone, replaced by headphones and a pre-recorded monologue. No one interacted with each other. No one told any stories about the time Elvis asked out their mama and she would have gone but she couldn’t get anyone to cover her shift at the coffee shop. Without that, Graceland is just a house.
CJ’s the only person I’d go to Graceland for after that, and I’m so glad I did. My baby wanted to see the Jungle Room, and I made that happen, one last time. And then I let them sign the wall out front.
Throughout that summer, CJ and I made road trips and spent several days at a time in a bunch of nearby cities. We bet on horses at Churchill Downs in Louisville before CJ’s first horseback riding lesson, swam in hotel pools until we were famished and exhausted at night. Dodged kangaroos at the Columbus Zoo, saw Lady Gaga’s meat dress in Cleveland, and sweated with pandas in Memphis.
Do I wish CJ had been bitten by the travel bug like me? No matter where I go, I see things I know they’d love. I send them photos and stories, which they enjoy. I do hold out hope that, as they get further into adulthood and into the groove of the next phase of life, they’ll be inclined to join me on the road.
But even if they don’t, being CJ’s mom provides the opportunity to learn other ways of experiencing the world. Through art and cultures I would otherwise miss. And from the perspective of a 22-year-old in this really fucked up but still beautiful world. And through their wonderfully intricate mind with its endless imagination that creates new places on paper through their skilled and gifted hands.
Being CJ’s mom is more than a trip. It’s home.
I’m still dragging from being in labor for 34 hours. Wanna buy Mama a coffee?