Lisa Carnley is managing editor of the Lampasas Dispatch Record. She is glad to be traveling by plane -- and alone. While students are back in schools across the nation, many of them are lamenting that summer vacation didn't last longer; that it was time to put up the bathing suits and drain those backyard plastic pools.

When my children were young, being out of school just provided them with scores of opportunities to act out, so for me (and numerous parents) the new school year couldn't come soon enough.

"Vacations" by car -- and I use that term lightly -- consisted for us of piling into a car stuffed with two adults, two kids, pillows, backpacks, a cooler full of food, lots of toys, several suitcases and assorted bags of who knows what.

That didn't leave much leg room for the kids in the back seat because things were piled under their feet and in between them on the seat.

We hoped that would stop them from fighting, but somehow they always managed to squeeze in a punch or two between the suitcases that were supposed to serve as "barriers" to keep them from blackening each other's eyes.

These trips were always memorable, but not necessarily in a good way. We usually headed for the two-day drive each way to New York to see my folks. And while going by car wasn't the easiest way to travel, it was the cheapest at the time when gas was less than half the cost it is now.

We would be up late the night before the trip, and by the time we finished packing suitcases and the car and got the kids settled down for the night, we didn't usually get to sleep until well after midnight. And we were up at the crack of dawn to "try to beat the rush-hour traffic" I was always told. I wasn't ever sure how many other idiots were on the road at 4 a.m. to beat the traffic -- or why.

By then, the kids already were cranky and mad at being awakened so early. They were in no mood for breakfast, and I didn't force it on them because my younger son, Zach, was a car-puker.

Yep, we generally made it as far as Temple (if we were lucky) before we had to pull over so he could throw up on the side of the highway. And this recurred every couple of hours or so for the first half-day of driving -- at least until the sun came up. (There's another rationale not to leave before dawn.)

Once, in the pitch-dark with tires squealing, we pulled over to take Zach out of the car so he could begin his traveling ritual. I yanked him out of the back seat -- almost in time. What I didn't realize was I had plunked him down right on top of a bed of red ants. I thought he was just hollering because he felt sick. His poor little legs were covered with welts, and his clothing was covered with -- well, you know. That was the beginning of another memorable trip to New York.

We generally stopped at roadside parks to eat our flattened peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, along with chips and cookies, praying Zach would keep it down. A young family of four couldn't hardly afford to eat in fast-food restaurants on a long trip, what with gas around a dollar a gallon and all. But it was expensive.

And most women will understand when I say that when men get behind the wheel, they don't like to stop -- not even for potty breaks.

I have a bladder the size of a dime, and when I need to go, I need to go -- but generally not when a bathroom is available.

The usual response to my request to stop: "Why didn't you go when we stopped 10 minutes ago.?"

The typical reply is: "I didn't have to go then." My response: "I did, but I have to go again."

I can't help it. I just have to stop when I see an available restroom for fear another one won't come along when I really need it. It's a curse. All the women in my family have it.

In between the potty stops, the kids fighting, the search for drink boxes and tissues, the smell of dried throw-up and the toys that got broken (or tossed out the window) while the kids were fighting, I am always more than happy to get to our destination.

And then there's the drive back home ...