Now that all my kids are past the preschool years, they no longer ask, “Are we there yet?” nor do they cry uncontrollably to get out of their car seats. This makes trips like the one we just took to Wyoming more pleasant, but I still hear an occasional unwanted communication from the back seat.

The questions are now things like, “Does Joe’s Motel have an indoor pool and cable?” and “Can we find a restroom at a store that sells French Vanilla cappuccino?”

The tantrums are now over who won’t lend whom the Game Boy or who should be sitting in the middle.

My 11-year-old found out that Wal­Marts across the United States were selling various titles of his science fiction paperback series at a great price. “Can we stop at the Wal-Mart in Effingham, Illinois?” “Please?”

“Does Salina, Kansas, have a Wal­Mart?”

“lf not, can we make it a priority to stop at the first one we see in Colorado?”

“Oh man, there is a Wal-Mart at the exit we are passing now and there is a McDonalds next door. They have French Vanilla cappuccino, you know. Can we get off at the next exit and turn around?”

What I want to know is whether anyone even cares that we are not there yet.

Another amazing blessing is that the kids didn’t have those “he-is-touching-me!” arguments. I hate those arguments because, even though dealing with them is exasperating, I can empathize. I don’t like people and things invading my space for hours ad infinitum, and yet there is nothing one can do about it in a Ford Taurus wagon filled with two weeks worth of luggage, some ready-to-eat food, and five people, three of whom have legs that are growing even as we drive.

During this trip—I confess—I kept a journal of the things I heard from the back seat. This is a perfectly fair thing to do, since the children were keeping journals, too, and since all three recorded the brief incident involving one of us adults and the South Dakota state trooper in the construction zone. (I don’t want to get into the gory details of that situation; suffice it to say that sometimes having a Geneva license plate is not good p.r. for the college, and—don’t worry—we didn’t get a ticket.)

Returning to the comments from the back seat, here are some highlights:

“Please don’t sneeze on me.”

“Yeah, we see the snow, Mom.”

(As Mom is driving through a steep mountain pass with already-white knuckles.) “Hey, if we go much more to the left, we’ll dive over that cliff and die.”

“Don’t sneeze on me!”

“O.K., I’ll say you won, but not fair and square.”

“Yeah, we see the cows, Mom.”

“Aw man, I told you not to sneeze on me! Aw yuck!”

(Preceded by loud groan.) “I don’t know how to pitch to Barry Bonds” (Huh? I turn my head at this to face the back of the Game Boy.)

“For the last time, I do not want this on my lap …. Argh-hh! I said, I do not want…”

Other child interrupts, “But I wanted to see if it really was the last time.”

“Yeah, we see the train, Mom.”

I must admit that these back seat murmurings are much preferred to the old, “Are we there yet?” In fact, I will be downright gloomy when the back seat is quiet. Face it, most of the dialogue is better than a sitcom.

But I think when my back seat is empty, most people will feel most sorry for my husband.

“Yes, dear, I see the ponies.”

Lynne is an editor of the Witness and a survivor of many family vacations.