It was the day before Thanksgiving. We were on our way from Pennsylvania to Vermont, to my brother-in-law's, a 12 hour trip. There were five of us in the car and the majority were under the age of three.

As a newlywed, I used to let my husband drive. I preferred to sit and read.

But since we'd had kids I'd fought my husband to be the driver -- so that I wasn't the one responsible for feeding and taming the troops.

Unfortunately, the baby was screaming and needed to nurse. I had to pull off the interstate and let hubby drive. I sat in the back seat practicing my safe driving nursing, which I don't recommend to those of you with bad backs.

I squished between two car seats, leaned over him, (post-pregnancy breasts are very versatile -- and big), and nursed him.

Then the three-year-old needed to pee. Again. He had peed a half an hour earlier. We stopped on the side of the road. I took him out of the car seat. I helped him pull down his pants and asked: "Why are you peeing so much?"

"I'm pregnant," he said, without missing a beat.

(He'd been through two pregnancies with me in two years.)

Finally we reached Vermont. We needed a break. We pulled off of the road at a diner and sat down at a table. My three little kids began to bounce on the seats and when it dawned on them that they were free from their seat belts, free at last, they began to bounce over the seats -- literally, climbing over the tops of the booth and dangling their little bodies over the top, hanging into the booth next to us . We kept pulling them back over to us.

The people in the booth next to us smiled: "Sweet children."

We smiled back. Were those people senile or demented?

The waitress came to take our order. We asked for grilled cheese sandwiches.

"Will this be to go?" she asked.

"Uh no," we said, "we'll eat here." We needed to stretch and relax. "Long drive, you know."

The kids were shaking salt and pepper on to the table.

"Are you sure this isn't to go?" the waitress asked, tapping her pencil on her pad.

"No, we'll eat here," we insisted. "We've already been in the car for eight hours." The kids began to drum the table with their silverware. "And we'd like our drinks now."

When the waitress arrived with the cokes, she put them down quickly and walked away.

Three of the cokes were already spilled when she returned with our food, all wrapped up in a bag -- to go.

By then, the kids were running up and down the aisles in the restaurant. We surrendered to our waitress. We took our food outside, and ate in the cold. And let the kids run around a bit.

Soon we were back in the car, continuing our drive.

On the radio we heard that many people were held up in airports all over America, trying to get home for the holidays.

I turned around and looked at my kids.

One kid was drinking a bottle, another was sleeping and the oldest grinned at me. "My back hurts," he said.

"That's what happens when you're pregnant," I answered him.

We drove in silence. Apparently the food had calmed everybody down.

Flakes of snow began to fall. I experienced one of those moments of grateful bliss. This Thanksgiving, I had a lot to be thankful for:

My husband, my kids --

and most important --

that the waitress in the restaurant

wasn't a relative.