We rotate holidays with Dave’s family in Kansas City, Missouri. Thanksgiving one year, Christmas the next. The kind of arrangement that sounds reasonable until you’re loading toddlers into car seats and committing to ten hours on the interstate.
This year, nobody had Christmas off, so we rescheduled for January then February. Which is how we found ourselves packing for a post-holiday holiday.
At some point in my recent past, I expanded the radius on Bumble.
I would like to go back in time and slap my hypomanic self.
Ten hours.
With toddlers.
What was the vision here?
The Long Way There
Shockingly, the drive down wasn’t terrible.
I take the first shift—about six of the ten hours. We swap in Jacksonville, Illinois, about an hour before Missouri.
We slid through stretches that usually feel heavier without resistance. I didn’t even clock it until later. A quiet mercy.
Dave shuffled through music like commitment was illegal—half a song, switch, repeat—until he took over driving then we defaulted to The Office on his phone. Michael Scott as emotional white noise.
There’s a 100-mile stretch in Missouri that feels endless. Flat. Uninspired. Time expands. That’s when the girls finally started to unravel, which honestly felt fair. They had been tiny road warriors up to that point.
Arrival & Immediate Warmth
We pulled into Dave’s family’s home and were greeted by his mom, grandma, grandpa, a few friends—and stuffed peppers.
Warm house. Familiar faces. Food that signals you’re safe now.
Evie warmed up to everyone immediately except Rose, Dave’s German Shepherd. Boundaries were established. Still, she loved the people so much that bedtime became a loose suggestion. Sleep was not high on her priority list.
Crown Center Energy
The next morning, we headed to Crown Center.
Popcorn first—obviously—then straight into Dinosaurs: Land of Fire and Ice.
The girls were locked in. Social, confident, delighted. Ellie tried to clean up every station she touched like she’d been hired for quality control. Evie declared the volcano area the floor is lava and enforced the rule with full commitment.
At one point, she noticed another little girl struggling with sleeves that were too long and quietly walked over to roll them up for her. No performance. No audience. Just instinctive kindness.
That moment stayed with me longer than the dinosaurs did.
Brunch at Fritz’s Railroad Restaurant followed, which I will forever love. You order on your phone and your food arrives via train, lowering down on a platform like you’re being rewarded for surviving parenthood. The girls were mesmerized. I was also mesmerized.
We drifted through the Crayola store because coloring is a personality trait in this house, then into the gift shop of a BBQ museum where my ex-mother-in-law bought me emotional support pickles. Correct. Spiritually aligned.
A very expensive children’s boutique somehow yielded the cutest sparkly pink skirt on sale for the girls. A rare retail victory.
Outside, it was seventy degrees. In February. We wandered by the fountains in that soft, borrowed warmth. The girls were clearly nearing nap o’clock, so we headed toward the car…then detoured back to the dinosaurs one more time because closure is optional when you’re under five.
On the way back, we stopped at Vintage Stock, where I found a Disney Casey Jr. snowglobe for $15. A win for me.
QuikTrip was next for coffee—because nothing says Kansas City like me vibrating from caffeine—except they discontinued my frozen coffee, so they are now dead to me.
We even made a stop at Penguin Park—one of those wonderfully weird Kansas City playgrounds with giant fiberglass animals and enough slides and swings to burn off leftover road-trip energy. I fully expected Ellie to cling to Evie the way she usually does, but nope—they split off in different directions, each chasing their own thing, each pulling in new friends like little magnets. Watching Evie weave into play with other kids made me smile in that soft, slow way, the kind that feels like permission. We actually had to drag them away kicking and screaming when it was time to go, and honestly? That’s road-trip victory in its purest form.
We made our way back to Dave’s parents’ house, sun-warmed and slightly feral. His mom got to work in the kitchen, roasting chicken and making my favorite—green bean casserole. The one Dave’s friend and I quietly compete for every single time like it’s a competitive sport. Plates were piled high, seconds were calculated, and the house settled into that familiar dinner hum. Kids tired in the best way. Adults finally sitting down. Simple. Solid. Enough.
Union Station Spiral
We saved Union Station for when we still had stamina.
Brunch at Harvey’s at Union Station steadied us before we wandered into Science City, where forward motion immediately became optional.
We got stuck at the entrance.
Spinning chairs. A glowing wall. Zero self-control. The girls were hysterical. Dave’s friend was fully committed to rotational velocity. We had to physically peel him off the chair at one point, which honestly solved our future wedding gift dilemma.
The building unfolded in waves after that.
The girls painted on windows—actual windows—which feels revolutionary when you’ve spent years protecting walls from markers. We drifted past fish, reptiles, and birds, and I was predictably drawn to the Jenday conure. Some associations linger when you’ve once been married to a bird enthusiast.
Water tables pulled us in next—the kind that echo Impression 5 Science Center—before the girls knelt into a fossil dig like tiny archaeologists.
A rainbow tunnel swallowed us into the light exhibit where we drew with UV pens, watched our hands glow, and stepped into the laser room. Suddenly everyone became overly serious action heroes. Evie tried to navigate it like a mission. Ellie just wanted to touch everything that looked forbidden, which feels developmentally correct.
The train section held us the longest. Evie made new friends within minutes and soon found herself inside a train car kitchen, confidently serving plastic meals to her friend’s guardians like hospitality is instinctual.
Upstairs, Evie and I wandered into an illusion area. At some point my mom called, and I split off to the carnival section while talking with her. I was doing surprisingly well at shooting hoops until both basketballs lodged themselves in the rim like the universe needed to humble me.
Ring toss was loud. Skee ball felt victorious. The giant hamster wheel felt like a lawsuit waiting to happen, and I nearly took us all out. We climbed into a helicopter. We burned the last of our energy.
Popcorn, candy, and drinks from the station theater sealed it.
We stopped briefly at the house, got Dave’s hair cut, and let the girls stretch their legs at Flora Park before calling it.
The Long Way Home
Morning came with half-zipped bags and overtired children.
We waited for Zaxby’s to open because road trips require ceremony, then started the long drive home.
The return was harder. Two car accidents slowed everything. The girls were officially over being in a vehicle. The endless Missouri stretch felt longer this time.
We had to stop for a potty break, and Dave chose Marceline.
Marceline is the small town where Walt Disney spent part of his childhood—the inspiration behind Main Street, U.S.A. I was so frustrated we didn’t at least swing downtown for a quick photo with the girls.
A few years ago, I visited Marceline alone during a full-blown identity crisis. I stood inside Walt Disney’s Barn and signed my name—actually, all of my last names at the time—like I was trying to anchor myself to something solid.
This time, it was just a rest stop and a missed moment.
We got back on the freeway.
We pulled into our apartment complex around midnight. Headlights swept across a space that finally feels like mine. The girls were glassy-eyed and heavy. So were we.
Bags stayed in the car. Shoes were kicked off wherever they landed.
We passed straight out.
Ten hours there. Ten hours back. Dinosaurs. Laser rooms. Emotional support pickles. A spun chair that almost claimed a grown man. A February day that felt like spring. A town that once inspired Walt Disney and once held me while I was trying to figure out who I was.
It wasn’t glamorous.
It wasn’t effortless.
But it was ours.
And somehow, that’s enough.
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