Driving Mrs. Cameron

Here I sit in the backseat of my car as my husband drives and my sixteen year old rides shotgun, shotgun, the term kids yell as they tear up the passenger side of the car trying to be the one to ride in the front seat.

I always swore I would never be one of those graying mothers that would give up and ride in the back seat. We were a dying breed; us front seat riding, driving mothers. I did my best but here I was, graying hear, the start of wrinkles around the eyes, sitting in the back seat. This was the first step of many steps leading to the resthome and to the local graveyard. There is no way I am giving up yet, I feel pretty good, my pulse is still strong and I haven't forgotten my name and address lately. I will just sit quietly and if I get a chance I will crawl over the seat and sit between them. They will probably never notice.

As we rode along, I listened to the hum of the engine and began to doze off having visions of me behind the wheel, pushing in the clutch, holding on to the little smooth knob shifting gears. I was brought back to reality by the grinding of the gears.

Sometime during my daydreaming my sixteen-year-old had gained control of my car. My eyes widened as I saw my son making my car do things that no car was meant to do, turning corners just close enough to leave black marks on the curb. He gave new meaning to stopping on a dime and proved you can get across the intersection on a red light and not get killed. My son zipped in and out of traffic laughing at the people that were sticking their arms out of the windows waving at him with on finger extended up, must be some special wave. On to the freeway, as we speed along, I realize he thinks freeway means you are free to drive any way you want.

The flashing lights and sound of the siren bring a smile to my lips. Now it is my sons turn for his eyes to get wide and full of fear. I begin to laugh as the policeman writes one ticket after another. The kind policeman suggests that my son ride in the backseat and that I drive. I join my husband in the front seat. He is looking straight ahead, as he knows he is the one that let the road hazard drive my car. I start the car, the steering wheel is damp from the sweat on my sons' hands, I look in the rear view mirror at my unhappy sons' face and think "There but for the man in blue go I!"