Sue MurphyMy daughter and I are taking a road trip to Florida next weekend to attend my grandson’s confirmation. The boy asked me to be his sponsor. I couldn’t be more proud.
My daughter offered to do the driving, all 10 hours of it, so I will be riding shotgun, handing off snacks and supplying sparkling conversation. (I hope.)
My trip prep to-do list isn’t that long: make sure I have appropriate clothing (I wouldn’t want to embarrass my grandson), pack food for the drive and get Dave checked into the boarding facility where he can commune with his fellow dogs.
My daughter’s list is longer. She not only has to prep herself but also her family, who will stay behind. She must stock up on kid-friendly meals and craft a detailed (very detailed) list of the kids’ activities so her husband (who very generously offered to hold down the fort) will not regret his decision. I suspect we will owe him big time when we get back.
Another thing on the to-do list is cleaning out her car. You wouldn’t think it would be that momentous an occasion, but this is the Mom Car we’re talking about. You know the Mom Car, that trustworthy vehicle that is in motion during all but the family’s sleeping hours. It’s transportation, shelter and mobile home base. You live in it more than you know.
The Mom Car is a trooper. It delivers my grandchildren to and from school, to and from gymnastics and Tae Kwon Do, to and from birthday parties and dentist appointments and whatever else appears on the schedule. Properly outfitted, it is a marvel of small space engineering. The center console holds chargers and pens and emergency quarters in case you have to add air to the tires. The side doors hold hand sanitizer and napkins from drive-thru visits that you don’t dare discard because that will be the exact moment when the contents of a squeezy applesauce pouch will end up on the front of a school uniform. Tissues and wet wipes are always in high supply.
When the kids pile into the car, they bring their temporary stuff – water bottles and backpacks, just-in-case jackets and backup shoes. There are pom poms and shin guards and mouthguards and leotards. The Mom Car is the hub of extracurricular transitions.
During these to-and-from travels, a steady stream of snacks must be handed back over the armrest – juice boxes and cheese crackers, packets of muffins and yogurt raisins, sustenance to tide the kids over until the car comes to a rest in the garage … whenever that happens.
Despite efforts to the contrary, shrapnel accumulates. After a few days, the bottom of the car develops a layer of crumbs and snack wrappers. There are Happy Meal toys and ketchup packets and the caps from those squeezy applesauce pouches. A couple weeks in and the carpet has become unrecognizable.
I’ve heard that the carwash offers a Super Mom Car special, which involves washing and steaming and wiping and whatever other maneuvers are required. I’m not sure how much it costs, but you’d be a fool to argue at any price. We’ll get that.
The Mom Car will be clean when we head out, and I will do my best to keep it that way. For one brief shining moment, it will live the life of an Uber limo. Just grownups, no yogurt tubes, no smears on the inside windows. Mom Car R&R. She’s a good old gal. She deserves it.
English (US)