This picture is from a popular parenting magazine. Every time I leaf through the issue, I find myself staring at this picture. First, I snicker. Maybe because the little girl looks like a smug little snot. Or maybe because when my brother and I were kids, we were happy to find an old elastic band and gum wrapper on the floor of the car to play with, and this girl looks so...equipped.
Instead of leather seats, we had black vinyl seats that singed our asses during the summer. Belt buckles that had sat in the sun became weapons of torture. My dad's Subaru wagon didn't have air conditioning. Sometimes he passed gas. Even with the windows open, it was enough to knock you unconscious.
Then there were the Crystal Gayle cassettes:
And don't it make my brown eyes
Don't it make my brown eyes
Don't it make my brown eyes bluuuue-whooo.
All of this to get to Howe Caverns. (If you've never been, one visit is enough. Unless you've driven six hours in a car without air conditioning—then you'll want to tour the underground caves until winter hits.)
I digress. The other reason this picture grabs me is because I find myself thinking about my own car and what an absolute disaster it is. What if I could be that organized? What if I succumbed wholeheartedly to the compartmentalization that is pretty parenthood? Where everything had its place, and Nirvana ensued. What if?
But no. I don't want Junior to end up with a smug look on his face. I don't want to organize markers in individual, labeled slots. In a weird way, I like finding them under the seat, covered in schmuck and hair. Because I can say to Junior "The yellow is crud. You'll have to use green today."
And he'll have to: He'll have to deal and move on.
Amen. I finally got this off my chest. Now I can recycle the issue and stop staring at that creepy little kid. Thank you, blogosphere. Thank you!
