Editor's Note: This is the second column chronicling the adventures of Cynthia Bliss - a slightly frantic account executive at a public relations agency; wife of Stuart and mother of Amy, 6, and Elizabeth, 4.

Traffic crawls along Route 3. Like lemmings headed for a cliff, thousands of vacationers are bound for Cape Cod. The Sagamore Bridge is several miles away, but this road seems to be go-o-o-o-ing nowhere.

In our car, Amy sings an off-key rendition of “Be My Guest.” Elizabeth does her hangman routine — eyes closed, head hanging to one side, drooling. Stu, fingers tapping the steering wheel, silently curses the SUV in front of him.

Our vacation started auspiciously.

8 a.m.

The car is packed. Contents include assorted Barbies and stuffed animals; bedding; sandy beach toys; travel snacks and, in case of bribery, gummy bears. The adult emergency bag contains, among other items, a large jar of ibuprofen and a bottle of tequila.

8:15 a.m.

Car pulls out of driveway.

8:16 a.m.

Car pulls back into driveway. I retrieve Elizabeth’s blanket from the house. Amy waves to Felix, our cat, who will sleep well knowing that he won’t be wearing doll clothes for a week.

8:20 a.m.

Back on the road.

8:45 a.m.

“Mom, I can’t find my book.”

8:50 a.m.

“Mommy, where are we going?”

9 a.m.

“Mom, are we there yet?”

9:01 a.m.

I pass out travel snacks.

9:05 a.m.

“How much longer now?”

Does drinking alcohol before noon mean you have a problem?

10 a.m.

“OH, GROSS! ELIZABETH IS PUKING!”

I look in the back seat. Elizabeth has barfed Goldfish crackers on herself and her car seat.

“EWWWW!” Amy shrieks.

I wonder how Goldfish smells in 90-degree heat. “Lizzie, are you OK?” Lizzie nods and throws up again. Why didn’t we get a car with leather seats? They’re easy to clean.

Stu pulls off the highway and into the parking lot of a large hotel.

10:05 a.m.

I issue instructions. “Stu, you clean the car. Here’s a water bottle and wipes. I’ll take Lizzie to the bathroom. Amy, you stay with Daddy.”

“Why? What if I puke too?” Amy announces. Stu silences her with “the look.”

Inside the hotel, people wearing name badges mill around a hall of meeting rooms. I’m suddenly conscious of my denim shorts and flip-flops, as well as my messy 4-year-old.

We quickly find a bathroom. It’s empty. I strip off Lizzie’s clothes — nothing was spared — and dump them in the sink. I clean her up with paper towels (sort of) and change her into clean clothes. As I’m washing my hands, two women enter the bathroom.

One of the women peers at me. “Cynthia? Is that you?” It’s Mary, a former client. She has big blonde hair and gleaming teeth. As she looks me over, her silver bracelets clink.

“Mary!” I say trying to sound breezy. “What a surprise! I’m on my way to the Cape with my family. This is my daughter, Elizabeth. Say hi, Lizzie.” Lizzie hides behind me. “We made a pit stop; had an…uh, accident.”

The bracelets clink again. Mary is visibly horrified. “How…um, unfortunate…”

“Well, must go now. The Cape awaits us! So good to see you again…” I back out of the bathroom, pulling Lizzie with me.

10:45 a.m.

Stu has cleaned the car.

“Let’s go,” I say, loading Lizzie into her seat.

Stu looks at me. “I’ll tell you later,” I say, placing Lizzie’s wet clothing in a plastic bag. “She still smells,” Amy says, sniffing. Lizzie reaches over and slugs Amy in the arm. She’s feeling better already!

I slump in the front seat, pondering life and that bottle of tequila.

10:55 a.m.

“Mommy, I’m hungry.”

“I’m hungry and bored.”

Stu rolls his eyes.

Someone once told me that life is about savoring the journey, not reaching a destination. But just this once, couldn’t we be there already?

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