What Kind of Life?

Recently I had the pleasure of driving from Irvine, California to Orem, Utah.

D2 sat in the front seat and kept me company the entire way home. For the first 4 hours from Irvine to Las Vegas this meant non-stop chatter. At one point, she asked,

"Mom, do you ski with sticks or without?"

"Neither," I replied.

"What?" she asked. My little snow bunny was certain she had heard me incorrectly. Growing up in the state with unarguably the best snow on earth, she has been in countless snowboarding lessons and enjoyed many hours at a local ski resort.

I, however, was raised in Iowa. Although the Hawkeye state is known for many great things, powdery ski slopes is not one of them.

"Neither," I repeated. "I've never been skiing."

"Snowboarding?" she asked.

"No," I confirmed.

"No skiing either?" she double checked.

"No. No skiing. No snowboarding."

Shaking her head in disappointment, she sympathized,

"What kind of life have you lived?"

Boogers Bug-her

While driving in the car, D3, buckled in her lounge recliner/car seat, suddenly shouted, "Mom!"

It is a little odd to me that someone so young calls me by that name. Even D2 and D1 still call my "Momma" and "Mommy". I am fairly certain that "Mom" is something your children call you when they become arrogant teenagers. Not when they turn two and start to talk.

Since I was driving and focused intently on the snowy winter roads, I ignored the salutation.

"Mom!" she shouted again - very distinctly. I continued to drive.

"Mom! she burst with even more gusto.

"What, Sweetie?" I finally replied.

"Here! Hold this for me," she demanded.

Musing to myself at her unusually mature speech, I briefly glanced over my shoulder to see what she needed to me hold. However, I declined taking the little "gem" she had pulled from inside her nose that was perched at the tip of her finger.

As It Turns Out...

S1 is a few weeks away from getting his driver's license. This has caused the typical parental concerns for DH and I as we attempt to teach him to drive. Suffice it to say driving does not come naturally to some.

We have been riding with him as he practices for several months. By now I am fairly prepared when I enter the front passenger seat of the car. The first thing after buckling my seat belt is to assume The Position.

When I was learning to drive, my mother assumed The Position which involved sticking both arms straight out against the dash and shutting her eyes as tightly as humanly possible. Then whenever she felt a subtle turn or stop, she'd let out a scream. Short but loud.

For S1, I have modified The Position somewhat. Basically I scoot to the far edge of my seat away from the side door and window. And there I am posed with one leg slightly raised and crossed over. I wince periodically as we graze trees, mailboxes, bikers, children, and cars lining the side of the road.

I often find myself panting and frantically waving my hand in a sideways flipping manner to indicate the direction S1 needs to move the car. Scrunching my forehead and squinting my eyes doesn't do anything to correct the car placement either. And jumping into the driver's seat for fear of my right arm being sliced off whatever obstacle is presently along the roadside has not been helpful.

So I've gone to silent chantings in order to hopefully help S1 with this struggle, "Feel the road, be one with the road, drive on the road. The gutter is not our friend." And it is gradually working.

The driving skill S1 and I are concentrating on this week is turns. Inevitably S1 will be halfway out in the intersection, still looking left for oncoming traffic before he finally determines that in fact it may be safe to proceed with a right hand turn. And since he is sitting in the middle of the road with no oncoming cars hitting him, it is an accurate assessment of the situation. Even though the conclusion is a long time in coming.

But since at this point S1 has not even begun to turn the wheel he ends up swinging out into oncoming traffic with the turn. Of course, all the while he is risking someone coming up alongside his right-hand side and making the same turn while in the very lane S1 should be himself.

I have remedied this with one simple phrase: "Turning is a process not an event." Gone is the screaming, lunging of my head in the direction I wish the car was going, and, of course, the ill-fated, grabbing of the steering wheel. It has all been supplanted with the simple message, "Turning is a process, son, not an event."

So while S1 enjoys turning 16 and turning the girls' heads, I silently remind myself it will not be over very soon. After all turning is a process, not an event.