“I like driving in my car. It’s not quite a jag-u-ar.”
So goes the line from one of my favorite songs by mod/reggae 80’s band “Madness.”
And yes, madness is just what car rides have become in our small, silver beaten up Honda Civic that just about fits the four of us with two behemoth car seats taking up the entire back seat.
The boychild used to love long drives. In fact, car rides became my final desperate act of getting him to nap when rocking, bouncing, swaddling and shushing failed. That was when we lived in Boston, and I’d hop on one of the many freeways and head out to Lowell, Waltham, anywhere to get him to rest and stop crying. It worked.
With B, things are different. She hates the car. Case in point: our drive back from a wonderful weekend with friends in Lincoln on Monday. The minute we strapped her into the car seat: tears. And then more tears. And wailing. And flailing. Until her onesie was practically drenched in sweat. After several unsuccessful attempts to give her a bottle, 1) sitting backwards in the front seat and praying my husband wouldn’t come to a sudden stop, and then 2) parking my flabby, post-partum arse cheeks between both car seats, the boychild’s knee in my back, trying to stroke her sweaty locks and give her the pacifier – I finally just 3) shut my eyes and tried to block it all out. Hoping that one day in her 20s, while doing some noveau age regression therapy, this experience wouldn’t come back to haunt the both of us.
We’re going to Nantucket in a few weeks to stay with my parents. 5 hour trip to the ferry in Hyannis.
So even though I’m not sure I believe in God, I’m getting down on my knees and praying for a smooth ride. No more madness, please.