are we there yet?

I have this vast sense of impatience at the moment.
Do you remember when you were a child, and you went on a road trip with your parent/parents/grandparents/etc?

You inherently crawled into a steel death-trap-on-wheels, which in all likelihood was unfortunately encased in woodgrain paneling. and, if you were REALLY cool, it was a station wagon; the kind with the seat that folded up in the back. It so didn't have air conditioning. And you were forced to sit in the back seat, on those crappy plastic-posing-as-leather-but-we-all-know-the-dirty-truth seats, which created an immediate, epoxy-like bond between your little tush and itself. And your sibling(s) alternately amused, annoyed, touched, poked, stuck to, and ripped the flesh off, you.

And you never could drive there fast enough.
And your mom/grandma/other benevolent and well-meaning adult said things like:
Let's play a game!
Who wants to sing a round?
Why don't you girls color instead?
Susie, you need to share that can of root beer.
Maybe it's time you kids all closed your eyes and just rested for a minute.

And then, you heard it. That noise dad/grandpa/person of authority (or assumed authority) in the driver's seat makes when they are just about done being hot and tired and have a headache from the road noise and the kid noise and are just about as disturbed about being glued to that plastic seat as you are.

It sounds kind of like a growl, and kind of like something very small and innocent dying.

There'd be that pregnant pause. Then, someone would chime in:
"Daaaaad! Margaret's on my side!"

And you'd get the silence. Or the head-whipping-around-to-the-back-seat, just for a second, glare. Or this:
"If I have to stop this car..." (fill in your favorite threat here.)

More pause. Someone would slap or poke or otherwise annoy someone else in the back seat.
And then you'd hear:

"Are we there yet?"
______________________
That is my whole life right now.