I wave at the navy blue Honda Civic from the driver’s seat of my green Mercury Villager. I’m not sure if it’s Teresa, Connie or Melanie, but I know that the car is familiar. So I wave after dropping off my son, Seth, at school. It’s quite possible that I don’t know the driver of the car, but she waves back anyway. It’s early in the day. I’m still shaking off sleep when I realize that I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. It’s a good thing that my morning socializing takes place from behind a steering wheel.
That’s how it is when you’re the mother of the “young and unlicensed” who depend on you for their transportation. For the better part of the daylight hours, we carpooling moms operate from a bucket seat and view the world through a smudged windshield. Our glamorous life of pickup and delivery rivals the schedule of most UPS drivers. It benefits us to remember what make and model our friends drive because it’s easier to recognize them that way. A silver Grand Cherokee (Suzie) or a white Sonata (Alma) gets a smile and a friendly hand gesture from me most mornings.
We’ve become our cars. Right now my friends see me as a minivan, but I know that the woman inside is really a sports car. Maybe someday I’ll shed this guise of traditional stability and opt for the rogue scampiness of a Porsche. I daydream about driving past other SUV moms waiting in the parking lot of the Y and waving to them from inside a red Maserati Spyder.
Before marriage and kids, I drove a sleek, two-door silver Toyota Celica. It had a stickshift and just enough room for me, my load of college books and a passenger, should I decide to have one. Now, my vehicle has seat belts for seven, space for soccer balls, a bicycle, nine bags of groceries and a couple dogs.
Like other moms, my earliest days of motherhood were brimming with kid-related transportation challenges. That’s when my three sons were in their car- seat years. Even the easiest task, like picking up a gallon of milk, involved work, patience and pre-planning. By the time everyone was buckled in, I would be questioning the need for milk, diapers or food of any kind.
As the boys got older, the errand-running and play dates turned into carpooling to football practice, music lessons and club meetings. Taking the guys to and from their activities left me little time in between to return home, start dinner and throw in a load of whites. It made more sense to just hang out. So I — being the resourceful multi-tasker that every mom evolves into by the time her youngest is in kindergarten — equipped myself with an emergency road kit. Just a few things to keep me busy while I waited for guitar lessons to end. No jumper cables, flares or radiator coolant in this totebag. Instead, to help pass the time, I packed stationery to write overdue thank-you notes, a half-read novel, snacks for the famished, crayons and coloring books to keep others entertained and that week’s sale ads.
Today, two of my three sons are licensed drivers. The third is not far off from becoming a member of the driving public. My days of car seats, carpools and drop-offs are coming to a close. I find myself thinking about spending afternoons sitting at the neighborhood streetside café, leisurely sipping a smoothie and thumbing through this month’s issue of Real Simple. From my vantage point, I’ll be able to see my friends’ cars as they drive by on their way an orthodontist appointment or some other child-related event. Of course, I’ll wave, but I’ll understand if they don’t wave back. Since I’m not in my car, it might be hard for them to recognize me.
Claire Yezbak Fadden, an award-winning columnist and freelance writer, lives in California. E-mail her at moms.world@sbcglobal.net.