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Writer's Block: Mommy Mommy
May. 13th, 2012 11:04 am[Error: unknown template qotd]
For not having gotten my license until age 30, a significant portion of my childhood was spent in the car with Mom, from back when i was a wee bit stapped into the torture devices that passed as the first five-point car seats to a little kid passed out in the massive backseat of her land barge of a 1983 Cadillac, to finally moving up to the front seat and serving as her copilot on trips until i went off to college.
To say that Mom loved to drive is an understatement and an oversimplification. Looking back, most of my memories of her being relaxed, calm and even happy are when she was behind the wheel, letting the hum of highway under tires soothe the anxieties that constantly plagued her. It was only later when i got licensed myself (later in life and in fact, at the same age she did) that i understood her constant, well, drive to be in the car, and the near zen-like state of mind she entered after about half an hour on the road. Years later, it's become one of my more effective self-soothing behaviors, especially over long distances. I also seemed to have learned more of my pervasive driving habits from her by osmosis, seeing as while i didn't get my license until well after her death, i still catch myself copying them. Good in the defensive driving sense, bad in the family lead foot and sudden explosions of dockworker profanity at other drivers' jackassoirie senses. I swear, all my Mom's pretenses of being a perfect lady died when the key slid into the ignition, which is probably why while i knew better than to repeat any of it in her earshot, i was swearing competently and creatively by the fourth grade.
As to where we went, at the risk of sounding like a car commercial, the destinations never mattered as much as the journeys, or that unique sense of both consternation and relief that occurs after you're back home putting the car in park and preparing to return to real life. But it could have been a run as short as from Brooklyn to Manhattan to get me to school, to NJ to visit my aunt and later my sister, and when i was younger, stretches all the way to Ohio, Virginia, Michigan and Illinois. I seriously remember more of the trips there and back rather than actually being there.
Its funny... She and i certainly had our share of mother/daughter differences to the point where even on days like today i actually feel somewhat guilty for not missing her nearly as much as i feel I should. (Lets me frank, if she were still around she would be micromanaging my wedding to the point of driving me to tears.) On the road, though, is one of the few places where i do. I used to have her picture dangling from my rearview mirror, actually, with the inscription "Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly" on the back. Figure I've been her primary passenger for so many years... she'd return the favor if she could. (Backseat driving the entire way.)
Happy Mothers' Day, those of you who observe it.
For not having gotten my license until age 30, a significant portion of my childhood was spent in the car with Mom, from back when i was a wee bit stapped into the torture devices that passed as the first five-point car seats to a little kid passed out in the massive backseat of her land barge of a 1983 Cadillac, to finally moving up to the front seat and serving as her copilot on trips until i went off to college.
To say that Mom loved to drive is an understatement and an oversimplification. Looking back, most of my memories of her being relaxed, calm and even happy are when she was behind the wheel, letting the hum of highway under tires soothe the anxieties that constantly plagued her. It was only later when i got licensed myself (later in life and in fact, at the same age she did) that i understood her constant, well, drive to be in the car, and the near zen-like state of mind she entered after about half an hour on the road. Years later, it's become one of my more effective self-soothing behaviors, especially over long distances. I also seemed to have learned more of my pervasive driving habits from her by osmosis, seeing as while i didn't get my license until well after her death, i still catch myself copying them. Good in the defensive driving sense, bad in the family lead foot and sudden explosions of dockworker profanity at other drivers' jackassoirie senses. I swear, all my Mom's pretenses of being a perfect lady died when the key slid into the ignition, which is probably why while i knew better than to repeat any of it in her earshot, i was swearing competently and creatively by the fourth grade.
As to where we went, at the risk of sounding like a car commercial, the destinations never mattered as much as the journeys, or that unique sense of both consternation and relief that occurs after you're back home putting the car in park and preparing to return to real life. But it could have been a run as short as from Brooklyn to Manhattan to get me to school, to NJ to visit my aunt and later my sister, and when i was younger, stretches all the way to Ohio, Virginia, Michigan and Illinois. I seriously remember more of the trips there and back rather than actually being there.
Its funny... She and i certainly had our share of mother/daughter differences to the point where even on days like today i actually feel somewhat guilty for not missing her nearly as much as i feel I should. (Lets me frank, if she were still around she would be micromanaging my wedding to the point of driving me to tears.) On the road, though, is one of the few places where i do. I used to have her picture dangling from my rearview mirror, actually, with the inscription "Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly" on the back. Figure I've been her primary passenger for so many years... she'd return the favor if she could. (Backseat driving the entire way.)
Happy Mothers' Day, those of you who observe it.
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