Backseat Driver(s)

Backseat Driver #2

I’m not claiming to be the best driver in the world.  I truly didn’t get a chance to start driving until I was 24, and it took me years to feel comfortable doing so.  Yes, I nearly ran over a cop once.  Yes, I bumped into a white pick-up one day, then almost did the same thing at the same time in the same intersection with the SAME TRUCK the next day.  And, to my immortal shame, I once got a speeding ticket because I was so busy rockin’ out to William Hung.  But those days are behind me now.


Now, I make sure to hover over the break when approaching an intersection, even when my light is green.  I come to a full and complete stop when commanded to do so.  I check my blind spot before changing lanes.  I am, I think, a Pretty Good Driver.

But Bee, apparently, disagrees.  He seems to feel I take huge risks because I use the suicide lane.  He thinks I am begging for an accident because I stop early enough for side street traffic to merge.  He is certain I don’t see the bicyclist on the street I’m about to cross. 

And here’s the bigger problem: rather than a calm, “Do you see the cyclist to your right, Honey?”, Bee finds it imperative to yell, “WATCH OUT FOR THAT GUY!!!”  And, when one is driving at 35 (OK, 42) miles an hour, AND when one is attempting to keep an eye on 360 degrees-worth of surroundings, it is very distressing to have someone abruptly scream an ambiguous warning at you.  Quite frankly, rather than the save the cyclist’s life, Bee’s outburst is more likely to contribute to the unsuspecting man’s death by startling me so much that I then lose control of the vehicle, resulting in the unfortunate death of the cyclist, his Pekingese (no loss there), and a couple of random hydrangea bushes who were – sadly – simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Luckily for that damn Pekingese, I have nerves of iron and am not easily surprised, so I can usually continue driving in a relatively straight line, despite the best efforts of the paranoid schizophrenic stomping his imaginary foot brake next to me. 

But do I get kudos for my calmness?  No.  Instead, three blocks later, I am tested yet-again when my own personal Early Detection System feels the need to shrilly shriek “SHOE!” as he white-knuckles his armrest.  Because – brace yourself! – there is a little white tennis shoe off to the side of the road. 

True story.

His lack of confidence in my driving is so demoralizing, I honestly prefer it when it’s just Mr. C and me in the car.  Except . . .

Except now Mr. C has learned that green means go and red means stop and yellow means get ready to stop.  So now he likes to insist I “Go, Mommy, go!” or “Stop, Mom: it’s red!”  Which was kind of cute, at first; but now it’s a little old.  Worse yet, it’s a little distracting, since he’s not always looking at the proper light when he’s yelling instructions from his command center in the back.

Actually, the very worst is when I’m bending the rules and he catches me at it.  Like the other day, when I totally ran a yellow light.  Ran it enough that it turned red as I was still halfway through the intersection.  It’s not something I generally do, but I had some really important thing to get to (a movie, I think) that could not wait the extra two minutes that light would take.  So, as I was guiltily trying to make it to the other side of the intersection unscathed, directly avoiding the wrathful glares of the drivers waiting for me to clear their path, I was also contending with Mini-Bee in the back, screeching, “Stop!  Stop!  The light is RED!” 

It’s just so frickin’ adorable how much he takes after his father.