Disgruntled Dad: Driving in Cars With Kids

Lately, I’ve been thinking about all the reasons I love driving places with my kids (said no parent, ever).

It starts innocently enough with that first magically terrifying drive home from
the hospital. 

“WHAT ARE THESE OTHER DRIVERS DOING ON THE ROAD!? GIVE ME SPACE, PEOPLE!” 

Then before you know it, they’re wailing and puking and massaging applesauce into the upholstery. Filthy animals. 

Fortunately, after a few years of wanton automotive interior/eardrum destruction, they settle down… and start to talk, and talk, and talk. 

“Dad, do you want to play the animal guessing game?” 

“Dad, what’s your favorite Pokémon?” 

“Dad, what do you think my favorite Pokémon is?” 

“Dad, why are we stopping at the liquor store again?” 

Riveting dialogue, I know. Especially when it runs on an apparently inexhaustible loop. 

But wait, there’s more! Before you know it, those innocent, relentlessly irritating grade

schoolers add a few years and introduce amazing new features. Like begging to play their music and (gulp) drive the car! 

At least this combination comes with the silver lining that listening to tweens caterwaul about their earth-shattering heartbreaks at max volume significantly decreases my anxiety about how close we’ve been swerving toward oncoming traffic.

Yep, it just keeps getting better every year… until it stops. Sixteen rolls around and “poof” the kids up and vanish! Not just from the backseat, but from your life. All of sudden, instead of asking, “What time do you need to be picked up?” it’s, “Where are you going?” and, “What time will you be home?”

So, if you see me out and about, gripping the passenger door handle while trying to simultaneously explain the mechanics of a turn signal, and carry on a conversation about make-believe animals with “Olivio Rodego” wailing about the two-week Instagram tryst that scarred her tender soul forever, know that, despite all appearances, I’m loving it. Disgruntled Dad always smiles through gritted teeth.