Datebook: Monday, October 23rd ~ 2006

I hate the part where your kids think they know more than you. Well, I mean aside from the VCR, DVR, and operational components of 20 remote controls.

My daughter has been driving for 2 and one half years, and my son for over a year. Somehow they feel this qualifies them to give information to the National Highway Safety Council.

If my daughter is forced to be in a position to ride with me it is major leg-shaking time. You know what I mean--the crossed legs, the free leg slapping time in annoyance instead of Bobby McGhee. She, of course, selects the music or brings her own CDs in case I might subject her to Toby Keith, Celine Dion, or the soundtrack from “Philadelphia”. Her CDs are typically compilations that she self titles “Sexy” or “Warm-up”. The warm-up is her rendition of my “Sweating to the Oldies” with Richard Simmons; she apparently shares her choices with the skating session during the four or five minutes of stroking. Now I get to listen to Justin Timberlake get sultry and out of breath.

Having her as a passenger is not as pleasant as it used to be, say when she was belted into a car seat with a juice bottle in her mouth. Now, she serves as the commentator for my driving. At a traffic signal she alerts me at the speed of light and sound when the device turns green-that nano of a second apparently adds up and takes away from her time that is needed for more important events, such as plucking her eyebrows or watching reruns of “Grey’s Anatomy”. If we are on the interstate she advises me that I can “get over” although I had no intention of repositioning my car. She also has the habit of leaning over and looking at my speedometer as if it is a cousin to Sleeping Beautie’s mirror and will advise her who is the “Slowest in the Land”.

She is also a human GPS. In her case, this means Girl Pestering System because she rarely knows where she is in actuality—I mean, she knows how to get there unless there is a detour or you ask her what state she is in, and then you just get the rapid blinking, no answer bit. No, the pestering comes from her apparent on-set of psychic abilities that renders her capable of reading other driver’s minds.

“I think that guy behind you wants you to speed up.”

“I think that car behind you wants you to get over so they can go around.”

You can never use humor in these situations.

“Really. Did he have a chili cheese dog for lunch?” is just greeted with a look that questions if she will need to take over the wheel because I have become demented.

My son does not have quite the skill that my daughter has in making me think I should turn in my license. He has another technique. He just won’t ride with me. He finds ways to avoid ever being a passenger, and if that is required he slumps low in the seat so positive identification is impossible. I sense his tension however and wonder if Jeff Gordon’s mother feels the same when Mr. NASCAR drives her to a doctor‘s appointment.

I wouldn’t mind if this sense of superior knowledge extended into other areas, say into toilet bowl cleaning, or dusting. I would love for them to whip the Clorox wand out of my hand in apparent disgust and say “It’s better if you go counter clockwise first!”

But that hasn’t happened yet.

I am dreading the Thanksgiving drive to the aunt’s house with all the suggestions of when to change lanes, which toll booth is faster, and what the guy in the Miata thinks of the time I have had my blinker on.

Maybe we’ll take two cars.

Mombo # 9