Inner Drive

We live in the city and my boys go to school about 13 miles away. Not too far, but not too close either. I drive them there and back and it takes about two hours in the car each day. It's one of the prettiest commutes in the country along Chicago's famed Outer Drive.

Beauty aside, some people question my sanity when I tell them I do this. I've questioned it myself. I mean, I like Billy Joel, but there are only so many times a human being can listen to "Uptown Girl" before renting out a room in an asylum.

Aren't there other options, people ask? Yes. Several. Last year I had a carpool, which was great, I trusted the mom and adored her daughter. Unfortunately, circumstances made it difficult to carpool again this year. There is also a door-to-door van service some people use. And, of course, there is the traditional yellow school bus.

But my boys are just four and five-and-a-half (oops, five and three-quarters....you know how important that three-quarters is.) Much too young, in my opinion, to be schlepped across the city by a driver who may or may not have a meth lab in his basement or a "thing" for Dora and Diego. I know that most people who drive buses are very safe and incredibly nice. I know they are screened, tested and asked to turn over their social security number and a bucket of blood before they are given control of your kids' lives. But still. You never know for sure.

And when it comes to my kids, I like to be sure. At least as sure as possible. I know for a fact that I don't have a substance abuse problem (other than Tylenol – did I mention I have two boys?), I took Oprah's "no phone zone" pledge, I can read the posted speed limits, and my car has functional seat belts that were manufactured sometime AFTER I was born.

Don't get me wrong. Since its invention in 1827, and its last maintenance check in the early 1950s, (I can't help but picture a service guy lubing a bus up with the Tin Man's oil can) the school bus has been a lifesaver for millions of families who work or have six kids to manage. I have many friends myself who put their kids on them. They are all devoted, responsible parents who love their children. But for now, as much as my boys may enjoy the idea the communal commute, (honestly what kid doesn't like being tossed around like a sack of beans while doing 80 down a bumpy highway?) I know it's just not for me.

It's not entirely about the drivers' ability though. When my kids are old enough to fend for themselves in an emergency, and know how to properly use a cell phone, then I'll absolutely, hands-down maybe consider the bus. Because while my boys are very smart little guys, I question their ability to determine if there's an emergency that necessitates using the phone or if they just really, really need to play Angry Birds. As it stands, my youngest routinely dials 911 twice a week (on accident) so I doubt the police would respond anyway should he call them in a true emergency.

I chose to stay home with the boys, and I accept that being their chauffeur is part of my job description. When my position of Mom is up for review in 15 years, I may renegotiate this clause, but I'm pretty sure they have an iron-clad contract prohibiting me from any sort freedom for at least another half century.

But my point, which I hope to get to before I become an Octogenarian, is that I really, truly love driving the boys to and from school. I cherish the time I have with them in the car. Because I know that someday soon having mommy take them to school and pick them up will be as enjoyable as Irritable Bowel Syndrome. They will beg to take the bus or demand to be dropped off 12 blocks away. They won't want me to walk them into class...their friends will do that. And pick up? Well, if I'm allowed that honor, I'll probably get a guitar case shoved in my face instead of a smile.

They won't want to be with me. And I won't be able to stand it.

Not that I don't enjoy down time. Trust me, I spent the first three years of their lives pining for this moment. When they'd be in school and I would be free to read, write or just sit and stare at the walls without someone projectile vomiting on me. And now it's here. Sure, I could use that extra hour in the afternoon for something, but that's not what will make me happy.

Waiting for them in the car line every afternoon makes me happy. Letting them hang around the playground after school to squeeze in an extra hour of "Freeze Tag" makes me happy. Even listening to them talk over one another to the point where they are screaming bloody murder and trying to kill each other across the removable middle seat makes me happy (I keep the Tylenol in my purse).

And so I'm taking advantage of every minute I've got.

When we first interviewed at the school someone told me she'd done the same commute with her two boys every day and that she wouldn't have traded it for the world. Why not? Because, as she put it, "for 18 years I had a captive audience." 

Two words jumped out at me. The first: "Captive."

This means that for at least one whole hour a day I can legally restrain and confine the boys without fear of being featured on Dateline or 20/20. In fact, if I don't keep them belted tightly in place with a five-point harness I could be thrown in jail. So for the better part of one hour they cannot move anything but their limbs, which are out of reach of my hair and each other. Once we get home it's WWF, so you have to understand, this is huge.

In my mind's eye I can picture the man who invented the five-point harness. He's tall, dark and handsome with piercing blue eyes. He has Christopher Reeves' bone structure and red cape. I do realize that this is ridiculous. It was obviously invented by a stay-at-home mom with two small boys.

The second word that got me was "Audience."  For 26 miles my guys have to listen to me – and I to them. I control the music, the windows and the snacks. So if they want a Chocolate Chip Z Bar, they better cough up their entire day from 8 until 2. And they do talk. Some days more than others, but by the end of the ride I have a pretty good idea of what activities they did, who they played with, and that they were the only kids in school (probably the planet) whose mom made them wear a hat and mittens when it was a balmy 25 degrees out. I too learn valuable lessons, like the fact that I shouldn't even think about putting blueberries in their lunch boxes ever again.

When they're older these talks on the ride home will change. For example, they won't exist. The boys will be plugged into the latest and greatest iDevice. Hell, they'll probably be petitioning Honda to make passenger/driver dividers standard in every model.

In the end, everyone has to do what works for them. I'm not here to judge – although I do. (Oh please, show me a mom who doesn't.) And maybe I am a little nuts, but nuts works well for me.

So to answer peoples' question about why I do this drive I say this: Yes, carting my boys back and forth two times a day is a huge effort. It cuts two hours out of my day. It drains my gas tank and tests my sanity. But to me it's worth it. I'm on borrowed time and I know it. Sullen teen angst is just a few miles up the road. I can already see the signs.

Gas mileage be dammed. On my death bed (yes, that's how I think) I will never, ever question that I soaked up every single second of these wonderful, fleeting years.

My tank is full.

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