Mother, driver, wrestler

The problem with transporting pampered pets back and forth to lessons is that in many cases, a parent is stuck being totally car-dependent. A simple run to the park and back often means wrestling two very strong and very strong-willed boys into torture contraptions called car seats.

The torture, though, is not so much for the kids as for the parents.

Most days, I give up and just drop my writhing toddler approximately near his seat, and then drive off. Actually, no, I don’t drive off, since I do dislike imminent danger to my progeny, as well as being arrested and all that.

But I do pine for 1973, when I could have just zoomed away with the doors unlocked — and possibly sealed shut with twine — while the 2-year-old stood in the front seat.

And if I got a nicotine craving, since this is the 1973 version of me, I could just have him run into the store to buy me a pack of Kools, right? Yes, a simpler time.

But I choose instead to spend the hour lumbering around inside the car while he scampers gleefully from the back seat to the front. And back again. Since I don’t like twisting tiny children’s arms beyond recognition, I’m pretty much stuck waiting as one or both hide out, flat on the floor, giggling and lapping up decomposed Cheerios.

One new trick is to jump into the front seat, so he’ll pop into the back, and I can spin around, stun him and strap him in before he knows what happened. Yes, I am that much more clever than a 27-pounder. (Impressive, no?)

If that fails, plan B is to wrap him in a towel and stuff him in a carrier the way I do with the cat on vet days. Or better yet, beckon that imaginary bike cop who got the almost-fiver to go back into his seat yesterday afternoon.

Ah, parenting takes you places you never imagined. –Jillian O’Connor

Comments invited.

Seriously, please tell me I’m not the only one who has to resort to wrestling to get her kids to sit down in a car.

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