Drive Me Crazy

Do I hate this woman, or what? Here I am gimping around, dragging one foot behind me like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein, and she's 40 weeks pregnant and running marathons? Show-off. It only takes a few women like her to ruin pregnancy for the rest of us.

It was Larry's turn to take Theo on the road today. In fact, I think it is going to be his turn from now on. We'll settle for traditional gender role assignments here - I give birth to the kids, and Larry teaches them how to drive. That's fair, isn't it? And, you know, that Lamaze breathing that everyone learns at childbirth classes that doesn't do squat when you are actually in labor? It does come in useful when you are in the passenger seat and the "baby" is driving. I sure hope Larry paid attention to how to do it.

Well, it's time to set half the clocks in the house back and then get distracted and leave the others as is and be really, really mixed up when we get up tomorrow morning. Maybe we just shouldn't bother to change any of them until tomorrow. But then we'll get up in the morning and ask each other, "Did we set them back last night or not?" It isn't easy, living with early-onset dementia.

By the way, I have no idea what's going on with some of the comments on this blog - I just found this whole page of comments I must have missed, and I don't know how. So if you're thinking I was ignoring you, you're right - but I didn't mean to. And now I'm having a hard time typing while trying to listen to Garrison Keillor, so I have to go. I do have some of my priorities in order, you know. And listening to A Prairie Home Companion outranks goofing off in the blogosphere. Unfortunately, reading Curious George for the millionth time comes in dead last, which could explain why Rachel is still sitting on the couch waiting for me to read to her and tuck her in. Bad Mommy, bad!

Rite of Passage

Okay, let's just try to forget about Halloween and tornado costumes and half-eaten bags of candy pumpkins that the trick-or-treaters are never going to see - just for a little bit, okay? The holiday excitement here has reached a fever pitch, and I need a little break.

So....Sunday I took my son Theo out with his brand-new driver's permit. Theo is my oldest, which means that this was a brand-new experience for me. Nothing, I mean, nothing - not getting married, not giving birth, not realizing that you like to go to sleep by 9:30 - nothing makes you feel as suddenly, irretrievably aged as putting your first-born baby boy behind the wheel of an honest-to-goodness motor vehicle. My brain essentially flipped itself inside out trying to comprehend how, in a time span encompassing approximately 15.8 seconds, I went from trying to figure out how to buckle in Theo's infant car seat to showing him how to adjust the driver's side mirror. I know you parents out there who have already been through this are smirking and saying, "Novice!", just as I do when I read about some young parent worrying about how to make a 2-year-old behave; but, dear Lord, how did this happen? Where did the time go? How did I get so old?

Okay, okay, I'm going to calm down. I am glad to report that I only slammed on the imaginary brake once (okay, twice) during the entire 2-hour session. Although I noticed, once I pried my clenched fingers off it, that the passenger-assist handle that Honda thoughtfully places above the passenger-side door seems to have worked itself a bit loose. Theo had a great time and asked lots of questions, such as "If the speedometer goes up to 120, does that mean the car can go that fast?" (Over your dead body) and "Gee, can we go out on the road now?" (No, not until you learn to stop the car before the stop sign). And the whole time I was thinking, "There are 5 more kids after this one. I cannot survive this." We did leave the nice, big, safe parking lot to go out on the road (the very untrafficked side roads) at the end, with me praying that he wouldn't slam into someone's parked Volvo or Lexus (we live in an affluent neighborhood, and no, I don't know why they let trailer trash like us own a home here, either). I didn't let him go over 25 mph (let's face it, it's my one and only chance to control how he drives). We made it home, in one piece and undented, but I feel as though I aged 10 years.

I have a child that drives. I am officially old.