Morning Drive

About twelve seconds after I woke Michael up this morning, he burst into tears.

He had asked me where his mommy was, and I had to explain that his mom had already left for work, and that meant he’d missed his morning drive.

Michael likes to drive with his mom every morning. He’s been doing it for as many years as I can recall.* On those days when she has to go off to her meetings, her cardio rehab or to work, Michael follows her out to her car, and after she’s had a chance to sit down and get her lunch box and coffee situated, he clambers up on her lap – an increasingly awkward process, Michael being a big seven-and-a-half year old now – and holds on to the steering wheel while she buckles up and puts the car in reverse.

Slowly and carefully she’ll back the car out of the garage and down to the end of the driveway, as I walk along side.

Then she stops the car, and I open the door, scoop him out, and hold him up for one last kiss and hug before she heads off.

It’s a ritual. One that probably won’t last too much longer, for a couple of good reasons: 1) He’s getting to be a bigger and bigger boy. His legs won’t be able to tuck under the steering wheel much longer, and he head will start bumping the passenger compartment ceiling. 2) He’ll eventually reach the stage that all kids do, the one where they turn the corner from mommy-magnet to parentally indifferent, which is the street just before “don’t embarrass me, mom!”. Once he gets there, mom will be lucky if she gets a grunted “bye” from him in the morning. Assuming he’s awake when she goes.

And it’s because this time in his life is fleeting, here today and gone the next, that neither his mom nor I are insistent that he give up his habit, as inconvenient as it sometimes is to all involved (I’m content to give my wife a kiss and a wave from the comfort of the garage, and she is happy to not have to struggle with a 45 pound package of bony elbows and knees while negotiating an aging SUV).

This brings us to the inconsolable sobbing that Michael furnished for this particular morning’s story arc.

“Michael,” I said while selecting his outfit for the day, “I’m sorry you missed her, but she has to leave really early to get to work, and you needed the sleep because you were up so late last night.”

My reasoning, sound as it was, did nothing to mitigate his grief. In fact, it seemed to fuel it.

“Let’s see your Grandma. Maybe she can help,” I said, hoping that Grandma K could make things better. Grandmas are good with things like that.

We wailed our way down stairs to find Grandma in the kitchen, putting away dishes. (Grandmas implicitly take over the dish doing in our home whenever either of them visits. I cannot say I dislike this fact.)

“Michael! What’s wrong?” she asked.

“He missed his momma’s drive this morning,” I explained.

“Oh, that’s so sad.” She stopped what she was doing to give him her full attention. “But you were up so late last night! It’s not good for you to get up so early! And your momma has to go to work…”

She did her best. She gave her most soothing, consoling Grandma voice. Still he was not mollified.

“Maybe you can drive with Sister S,” I suggested, without any seriousness. Sister S doesn’t have a car. And Sister S can’t drive yet.

But as she does sometimes, Sister S tuned into our conversation from the other room, and jumped in:

“Yeah! Michael, if you get ready fast, you can drive with me!” she said, excitedly.

He was hesitant, but started getting dressed.

“Wait a minute…” he said, stopping. “You can’t drive!”

“I know,” she said, “But I can give you a piggie back ride down the driveway!”

That was enough for Michael. He hurriedly dressed and ran over to her. I held her backpack as he jumped up on her back and she grabbed his legs.

“Okay, here we go!” she said, and headed out the door. “Vroom! Vroom! Screeeech!” She made over-the-top fake automobile noises and hustled down the walkway, down the driveway and around in a figure-8 before stopping at the mailbox at the property line.

“There you go! All done!”

“Yay!” he said, and hopped off. I handed his sister her backpack and she waved goodbye, trotting quickly down the sidewalk and off to meet up with her friends.

I scooped a sock-footed but shoeless Michael up and carried him into the house, a transformed boy: he who was recently steeped in regret and loss was now a satisfied, placated boy who was ready and eager to face his day. With a smile.

Some times, sisters can be really great.

* Rabid fans of this site (who, as of this writing have not made themselves known) may recall this story which states that Michael always rides in his car seat when in the car. And this is absolutely true… with the single exception of his morning drive ritual. See, I just don’t count that as “riding” in the normal sense of the word. I should be a politician.