I’ve reached the stage of parenting that’s 99% driving and 1% everything else. Between school, soccer, ballet, piano, sleepovers, doctor’s appointments, and trips to the store to buy snacks, hoodies, and various other essentials, my car has gotten a lot of love this season.
It makes me think back to when I was a tween and my mom was spending massive chunks of time driving my brother, sister, and me to all of our activities. Back then, I didn’t have any appreciation for how my mother magically wrangled everyone’s schedules and made sure we were all where we needed to be at the right times. One experience, though, still sticks with me.
I joined a swim team during middle school, and our practice locations bounced between a relatively close pool and a much further one. On this particular day, practice had taken place at the far pool, which was situated on the campus of a local community college. I’d never liked the far pool, an enormous concrete rectangle surrounded by drab beige bleachers. Whenever we practiced there, I felt uneasy, like the space was too big and would swallow me up.
After the workout I hurried to get ready in the locker room, eager to jump in the car and head home. But as I headed outside, expecting to see my mother’s van idling in the semi-circle near our familiar pick-up spot, she wasn’t there.
To this day, I’m not sure why. Maybe practice ended early, or traffic was snarled, or one or both of us simply got the timing wrong. And since it was the 1980s, there was no such thing as sending a quick text to ask where she was or tell her I was grabbing a ride home with a friend. My options were limited: Wait inside or wait outside.
So I waited there, at the top of the hill overlooking the lush, rolling landscape below. But I couldn’t appreciate the view. With each minute that passed, my annoyance with my mother grew. Where was she? I had things to do, after all. I was tired of waiting around.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity in “tween time” but was likely only 15 or 20 minutes, my mother pulled up. I stomped to the car, yanked the door open, and spat, “I was waiting an hour!”
I don’t remember what my mother said in response. But I do recall that she looked upset, as if she’d just been dealing with something stressful. Whatever, I remember thinking. She left me stranded!
As we rolled out of the parking lot, I continued to vent my frustration — and then I hit a nerve. My mother’s voice jumped to a pitch and intensity she didn’t normally use. “I was there for you, honey!” she insisted. Her words tumbled out in a forceful blast, and I started to cry. In retrospect, I’d like to think in that moment, I realized I’d hurt her feelings. But maybe I was just scared and sad that she’d finally yelled at me.
Looking back, it’s understandable that I — an ignorant kid — wasn’t in the habit of thinking deeply about the life my mother had outside of me. I didn’t spend time pondering the other responsibilities my mom needed to attend to, or the crises, small or large, that might prevent her from being punctual 100% of the time. No, I was laser-focused on whatI needed and wanted.
Now that I’m shuttling my own children around, I understand what my mom must have been feeling.
Because now, there are rushed mornings when I really, really want to pour that first cup of coffee or get an e-mail dashed off before we leave the house, but my daughter is ready to go NOW. There are afternoons when my phone pings with a text from my middle schooler as I’m on my way to pick her up from track practice. Mom? Are you here yet? I’m cold! There are times when my 5th grader climbs into the car after a long day and chirps, “You’re late!”
But, honey, I want to say, feeling compelled to defend myself. There’s construction and it’s raining and I got here as fast as I could and really, I’m not late, just a couple minutes later than maybe you wanted. Look, see, there are tons of other cars still behind me!
It’s upsetting for our kids when we’re late. I get that. My chlorine-soaked self of years ago certainly can relate. But those little delays can be an opportunity for our kids to practice flexibility and empathy, I’ve realized. We can remind them we love them dearly and that we also have lives outside of them — lives that are unpredictable and include traffic, missed connections, and other glitches.
To all the parents in the throes of shuttling kids and other precious cargo, I see you. May your traffic be minimal and your coffee hot but never, ever spilled all over your dashboard.
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