I Will Not Complain About Driving. I Will Not Complain About Driving. I Will Not Complain.

Where have I been?

Driving. And driving and driving.

I work until 3, 3:30 sometimes 4:00 if I’m not watching the clock, then get in the car to drive my kids.

And the neighbor’s.

And other kids, vaguely familiar from preschool a decade ago, hanging out whose moms “work” and since I’m home, can I swing them home? On the other side of the Ponderosa. And it’s a big motherf’ing Ponderosa, my rural town is.

All you young moms who want a big family?

May want to rethink that.

Because if all goes well, they grow.

And want to do things.

Like soccer and plays and student gov and skateboard and lifeguard and get extra help and hurdles and horses and pottery and lacrosse and scouts and motorcross and reffing and SATs and mentoring.

And if you don’t want them addicted to heroin, or pregnant, or at war in someone’s video pit, or hanging out at Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot with 23 year-olds, you need to get them there.

Which is why last week I put 470 miles on my car. Or rather, my boss’s car. But that’s another blog.

My rather attractive husband was out tapping trees, my carpooling firefighter neighbor was working nights, and my 16 year old has yet to get her license.

And fields opened. Which meant games. Lots of them. Some zip codes away, some across town.

470 miles which concludes, of course, that rather attractive husband does a lot more driving than I give him credit for. But that too, is another blog.

470 miles of spirographing: to school, to practice, to the pool. To the library, to home. Back to a locker then Target. To the doctor, then field. To a game, to the orthodontist – seldom over 40 mph, rarely out of a 6 mile radius. All between 3:45 and 7. Or 8. Or 9:00 pm. Not all nights. But many.

And this is on top of my regular work, gas, groceries, work, vet, gas, and um, gas. And an occasional drive through previously mentioned Dunkin’Donuts parking lot.

When kid1, college girl, was entering high school, I listened to a panel of current 9th graders speak to incoming freshman parents. One kid spoke from the heart, and not a script. I’m sure the administration was standing nearby with a hook, but that kid’s words echo in my ears even today.

“Listen: don’t pressure your kids to get involved

then bitch and complain about having to take us places.

You have no idea how much that just sucks for us.”

Ouch.

So I drive: traveled this past week 470 miles with the windows down and music cranked, knowing this road will end all too soon. And I will miss it.