On our next road trip, Bluey can babysit the kids for the whole 900km

Travelling interstate in a car with small children over the summer holidays is not for the faint-hearted, but some of us rise to the challenge. Sure, you could fly the 90-minute trip in an air-conditioned plane, but who wants to be stuck with a bunch of strangers giving the passive-aggressive stink-eye to your boisterous three-year-old when the open road beckons?

Once your kids have the post-Christmas sugar hangover and a supply of cheap, highly flammable toys to occupy them for five minutes, you take off, following in the footsteps of people living the great Australian Dream: the road trip. Think Priscilla, Queen of the Desert or Darryl Kerrigan taking his family to Bonnie Doon. We’re driving from Torquay, Victoria, to Sydney in one day because we’re masochists who think that being locked in a moving vehicle with small humans incapable of regulating their emotions is a good idea.

The kids are, at last, all right on our 900km summer road trip, and it’s time to switch from Bluey to a true-crime podcast.

For many, road trips conjure the idea of youth and freedom, hitting the open road with nothing but a full tank of petrol and an open heart. For parents, the dream, like the opening of The Simpsons episode “Behind the Laughter”, starts on a wing and a prayer, but the wing catches fire, and Satan answers the prayer.

The car smells like withering sandwiches, spilt juice and despair. The time-space continuum warps to interstellar proportions where two hours translates to “just around the corner”. You find yourself not only travelling the highways but also through the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

First, there’s denial: “This is a great idea: the kids will love seeing our beautiful sunburnt country out the window; what an opportunity!” Followed five minutes into the trip by anger: “Why is Australia so big? How many hours did you say?”

Then comes bargaining, the Faustian deal that all parents must make at some stage of a road trip: to iPad or not to iPad? We packed the iPad, but knowing its powers are akin to crack cocaine for small children, we try to use it sparingly, micro-dosing the kids with an episode of Bluey here and there to keep them on an even keel.

Next, there’s depression. My three-year-old holds his favourite hat out the window as a joke. Still, having little practical or theoretical understanding of physics, he is surprised when the wind grabs it and carries it into oblivion. His cry is like one from a broken man experiencing the dark night of the soul. This plunges the entire car into a state of depression – the next stage of grief. Another shot of Bluey soon dries the tears, and we pull up for a pit stop.

There’s some reprieve in the form of tiny country towns that proudly display their accreditation as the “cleanest town in NSW” – even if the deciding committee, possibly the mayor, remains unnamed. The quirky craft shops are full of creepy knitted Bluey soft toys, homemade jams, local honey and an abundance of bakeries with “best vanilla slice in Australia” awards.

You hit the road again and finally reach the acceptance stage, which usually coincides with the moment your kids fall asleep. You breathe a sigh of relief as you listen to that true-crime podcast that’s been taking up real estate in your brain, the tiny sliver that hasn’t been mapping out toilet stops for the last 300 kilometres.

Road trips with kids are a little like childbirth: a great idea until you go through it. It’s all about expectations. But like childbirth, you forget the challenges of a road trip: the sore hips, the delirium and the occasional craving for a Macca’s McFlurry. You arrive at the home of your extended family to be greeted with joy and an Excel spreadsheet of frenetic summer activities (beach, water park, pool, cricket, beach, repeat).

And, after some time has passed since your holiday, you think, “How lovely it would be to hit the road again”, or, “This time we’ll be better prepared.” And you do hit the road. Within five minutes, someone’s already asked if we’re there yet. And like my son’s hat, all rules are out the window – iPad for the next 900 kilometres.

Cherie Gilmour is a freelance writer.