On the Road. Again.
Every morning I load my family into our safety rating sweetheart of an SUV, strap the children into their five point harnesses, check all my mirrors, and do the most dangerous thing a driver can do on the highway: drive the speed limit.
It takes a great deal of psychological fortitude to be the slowest car on the road. I had to ease my way into it. I started by setting the cruise control at 65, and have over the course of a year ticked the setting down to 56. And I'm pretty sure people want to murder me. I'm constantly checking the rearview mirror for the enraged driver who's going to plow into me rather than go around. Tractor trailers have, on more than one occasion, flashed their lights to warn me that they have no intention of slowing down. The stream of cars passing me is so dense I often feel more like a parade spectator than a driver. I actually feel pity for the people who get stuck behind me; I want to hang a sign in the back that says, "Sorry! I'm a stubborn safety whore."
I endure all this drama just to set a good example for Peanut, who watches my driving like an anal retentive, bureaucratic hawk. If I break the rules and drive above the speed limit, then all hell breaks loose. Homework won't get done, chores will be ignored, and the tv will mysteriously turn itself on long after I call for screens off. I wish I was one of those parents whose authority was absolute, but I'm the type who leads by example. I'm also incredibly tight fisted and don't want to waste money on gas. It's a horrible combination that's pissing off commuters throughout New Castle County.
Sometimes, when there's a particularly long line of cars stuck behind me, I pretend that I'm starting a movement. The Slow-Down-And-Relax movement. People must be waking up to the fact that speeding causes undue stress and poor gas mileage. I am a leader among the lost, bringing a message of good economy and low blood pressure to the people. Stop rushing through our lives. Make getting there half the fun again. And that sort of thing.
But, within a few miles, I'm reminded that this line of thinking is utter bullshit, and I'm really just annoying someone who left for work two minutes late. So, along with setting a good example for Peanut, I'm teaching him the various ways in which people express road rage. And he sagely reminds me, "Mom, stop yelling back. They can't hear you."
I'm sure the overall message to the kid is a mixed bag of safety and self-righteousness, plus a few colorful insults to use on the playground. This is a prime example of how what we think we're teaching our kids is not at all what they're learning. Peanut can add this to his growing list of "Ways Mom might kill me." At the very least, being the most infuriating person on the road livens up our commute. If we went with the flow of traffic it would just be dull.
It takes a great deal of psychological fortitude to be the slowest car on the road. I had to ease my way into it. I started by setting the cruise control at 65, and have over the course of a year ticked the setting down to 56. And I'm pretty sure people want to murder me. I'm constantly checking the rearview mirror for the enraged driver who's going to plow into me rather than go around. Tractor trailers have, on more than one occasion, flashed their lights to warn me that they have no intention of slowing down. The stream of cars passing me is so dense I often feel more like a parade spectator than a driver. I actually feel pity for the people who get stuck behind me; I want to hang a sign in the back that says, "Sorry! I'm a stubborn safety whore."
I endure all this drama just to set a good example for Peanut, who watches my driving like an anal retentive, bureaucratic hawk. If I break the rules and drive above the speed limit, then all hell breaks loose. Homework won't get done, chores will be ignored, and the tv will mysteriously turn itself on long after I call for screens off. I wish I was one of those parents whose authority was absolute, but I'm the type who leads by example. I'm also incredibly tight fisted and don't want to waste money on gas. It's a horrible combination that's pissing off commuters throughout New Castle County.
Sometimes, when there's a particularly long line of cars stuck behind me, I pretend that I'm starting a movement. The Slow-Down-And-Relax movement. People must be waking up to the fact that speeding causes undue stress and poor gas mileage. I am a leader among the lost, bringing a message of good economy and low blood pressure to the people. Stop rushing through our lives. Make getting there half the fun again. And that sort of thing.
But, within a few miles, I'm reminded that this line of thinking is utter bullshit, and I'm really just annoying someone who left for work two minutes late. So, along with setting a good example for Peanut, I'm teaching him the various ways in which people express road rage. And he sagely reminds me, "Mom, stop yelling back. They can't hear you."
I'm sure the overall message to the kid is a mixed bag of safety and self-righteousness, plus a few colorful insults to use on the playground. This is a prime example of how what we think we're teaching our kids is not at all what they're learning. Peanut can add this to his growing list of "Ways Mom might kill me." At the very least, being the most infuriating person on the road livens up our commute. If we went with the flow of traffic it would just be dull.
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