Reality Mom: The Weight of Like
The first time it occurred, I was riding in the backseat of a car. My mother was fiddling with the radio while my father drove. He likes to smoke while driving and fails to understand why we protest this behavior. “What?” he asks incredulously, “I opened the window.”
Fortunately for us, it was a warm summer day and the drive to the pool wouldn’t take long. Something about being crammed between my two children in the back seat made me feel like a child myself. A flood of memories of rolling around my parent’s station wagon with my sister came to me and I mourned that my children would never experience this freedom. They are always strapped in and harnessed to molded plastic. Rolling around in a moving car is now deemed precarious, if not downright lethal. We didn’t worry about these things in the seventies. In fact, in many of these memories I can clearly picture my dad’s highball glass in one hand, the steering wheel in the other.