Still in the Driver's Seat, For Now

Yes. I'm still driving him. And I'm done being apologetic about it.

Yes. He's had his driver's license for over 5 months and could probably drive himself the 25 miles to classes on the 3 days he attends. But, he doesn't. I do.

At the beginning of the semester, it was my intention to do the driving for a couple of days then have him drive with me in the car to make sure he knew the way. Oh I had my reasons: it was rush hour, after all. Bumper to bumper on 2 congested highways, not a quick trip to the local high school. He, like his older brother and unlike his sister and me, doesn't really like to drive. He's not a freaking control freak and is quite fine sitting in that passenger seat. I am a freaking control freak and never like sitting in the passenger seat. Ever. I especially hate it when one of my kids is at the wheel. I gotta admit that I didn't really take that last point into consideration when plotting out my original plan.

It just became a habit: I would drop him off and either head back home to the gym and the treadmill or to a cafe to write. He never insisted on driving; I never insisted he drive. Friends started asking, "Why doesn't he drive himself?" and I started making excuses. "He's not comfortable with the route" turned into "We're down a car and I've got stuff to do" turned into "It's so snowy and icy and oh those crazy drivers out there."

And now, damn it, I like it. We listen to Morning Edition on the drive in and Radio Boston on the way home. We groan in harmony when Sarah Palin's name is mentioned and debate economic and racial segregation in the neighborhoods of Boston. I hear about the Ugandan boy in his anthropology class who is estranged from his family and holding down a full time job and the man, who apparently is even older than me, that sits behind him in his world history class. I can get away with comments like, You know, when you're away at school next year, you'll have to be responsible about eating right/getting enough sleep/keeping your side of the room clean/insert another annoying momism here and he can't run away because he's stuck in the car laughing at me.

This is the third kid of mine to go away to school; when Fall rolls around I don't want to wish I had spent more time with him when I could have. So I complain about having to get up early and worry about being pulled over by the cops when I'm in sweats and no makeup and lament how much time out of my day all this driving is taking while in private I'm enjoying the hell out of it. There's only a month left. It's not nearly enough time.

Road Trip Down Memory Lane

I just spent a weekend in upstate New York with my writers group. Unseasonably warm fall weather, great eats at great restaurants, and the fact that one of us grew up in Woodstock and could serve as tour director, contributed to yet another wildly successful road trip. Another reason for our visit: as a young mother some 23 years ago, I lived about 8 miles from Woodstock. I haven't thought about that phase of my life in a long, long time. Now, I'm thinking.

We moved to Kingston when our oldest was 6 months old. It was a change we were looking forward to. Steve had just finished a grueling stint at a Boston law firm; he would stumble through the front door at 10 PM every night only to face a colicky infant and the kid's frustrated and exhausted mother. An offer came to our rescue in the form of an alternative energy start up located in upstate New York. Still a lot of work, but more reasonable in its demands as well as more in line with his interests.

Real estate prices in that area of the Hudson Valley were low compared to the Boston suburb we were leaving and so we were able to buy a big old rambling colonial in the middle of the city of Kingston. We loved the converted carriage house that was now a detached garage. We loved the large backyard which could contain a playset and a sandbox and a garden. We loved the side sun porch with the gleaming wood floors. We could walk Uptown for lunch or coffee or ice cream. It was a great beginning.

Then, I tried to make friends. There were no neighbors close to our age, adults or child. I couldn't find a playgroup. It is difficult for me to remember how we spent those days, some 23 years ago. I soon discovered while our little part of Kingston was fine, we couldn't walk TOO far without hitting some areas in which I was uncomfortable with a stroller: Broken beer bottles on the sidewalks. Crumpled up trash blowing across the street. Deserted buildings and shattered windows. You get the picture. I do remember taking long drives: to Stone Ridge, to Boiceville, to Ellenville to meet Steve for lunch. I was on the phone a lot to folks back home in Massachusetts: friends, my mom, my sister.

Our second child was born in the middle of a really hot summer eighteen months after our move. That fall, we enrolled our oldest in a local preschool that took 2 year olds located just outside of Kingston. Aha, I thought! Now I will meet people. Oops! Not so fast. I had very little in common with everyone I was running into. Many parents were ex-hippies who once-upon-a-time moved up to the Woodstock area and now were tooling around in late model BMWs with their toddler Dylans and Jonis, espousing the joys of country life and tie dye t-shirts while waiting for the nanny to arrive. Others were folks down from the mountainside, badly in need of a bath or a shave; sometimes both. Where were the in-between people?

I made one friend. One. But she was a good one. Our kids were the same ages. We both read the same books and liked the same movies and laughed at the same jokes and shared the same politics. One of my best memories of that whole wretched 3-1/2 years was rigging up a small TV on her patio so we could watch "Blue Velvet" outside on a hot summer night and drink glass after glass of red wine while the kids played inside.

So, I returned last weekend armed with my one pleasant memory and many more distressful ones. What did I discover? Not much had changed, except that my lovely oasis of a house had aged badly, looked neglected and lonely, and unfortunately fit in too well with its dilapidated surroundings. So sad. So glad we left when we did.

Pro / Con List

Subject: Having J Home Full Time Starting This Fall

With homage to Rory Gilmore, queen of the Pro/Con list



PRO:

I'll have someone to watch trash TV with: Kardashians, Project Runway, Top Chef, endless Gilmore Girls reruns

She laughs at my stupid jokes

I laugh at her stupid jokes

She will honestly tell me if my outfit sucks

We can practice our karaoke act nonstop

I can worry about her in person


CON:

Her room remains disgustingly dirty with no end in sight

She loves to bake and there are always brownies, cookies, or cupcakes around

She swipes my stuff like lens solution, mascara, conditioner, and vodka but never replaces any of it

She comes home at all hours of the night and leaves all the lights on

I can worry about her in person

Learners Permit

You'd think it would get easier with the third kid, but it doesn't.

I've learned a lot (mostly through mistakes) in my attempts to raise 3 healthy, happy, eventually independent children. With the oldest, I breast fed for 12 months, carried around a food mill to grind carrots for baby food, had plug protectors and toilet seat locks, rocked him to sleep every night, limited TV watching to Sesame Street only. With child number two, I breast fed for 6 months, tried to remember to pack the Gerbers, yelled “stay away from the outlets” when she became interested, gave her a pacifier at night and allowed the Disney Channel. By the time child number three rolled around, reality ruled. He had a bottle at 3 months and was lucky I remembered to feed him at all. I made sure the toilet bowl was clean before he splashed in it. A gate was put on his bedroom door so that if he didn't go to sleep right away at least he stayed in his room. “Thomas the Tank Engine” was on non-stop.

But sitting in the passenger seat while your kid drives with a Learners Permit doesn't get easier with the third one; it is still Ultimate Torture. My foot constantly slams on the imaginary brake pedal. I dig my fingers into the seat each time he makes a left turn. I scream “mailbox mailbox mailbox” as he hugs the side of the winding country road. Just like I did with the first two kids. When I take a step back and think about Third's driving, it is actually quite good. Earlier this week, he merged onto a highway, changed lanes, make a difficult left turn and negotiated a traffic-packed rotary. Quite confidently, at that. And despite the fact that his lunatic mother was hyperventilating in the passenger seat.

His older siblings warned him: Don't drive with mom. She'll make you crazy. Dad's better at this. The reality of the situation is that mom's schedule has more flexibility than dad's and the only way to learn how to drive is to do it.

We go out on the road again today. My martini better be ready upon my return.