I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
June 29, 2008
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We’re roaring down I-24, straddling two lanes like we own the highway. Dismayed, I stare at the white stripes disappearing beneath the center of our SUV. What exactly is happening here? Are we changing lanes, or are we going to continue along in both of them until we get to Chattanooga?
“Hubs?” I say uncertainly. He looks up from the GPS on our dash and swerves back into the right hand lane. I clutch the armrest. He shoots me an irritated look, but I think the armrest clutch was a very conservative reaction after what just happened.
I have a hard time on road trips now, considering Hubs’s erratic driving and the fact that our four children (in other words, my entire life) all are sitting in the back seat. We couldn’t be more different behind the wheel; I’ve become a road granny since having kids, resolutely following the speed limit, making full stops and looking both ways twice before making turns. To Hubs, on the other hand, the lines painted on the road are mere suggestions for clueless and uncreative drivers to follow.
I’d have more to say when he spontaneously takes the whole family offroading in the center median of the interstate, but since I grew up with a (lovely and brilliant) mother who is quite possibly the World’s Most Nervous Car Passenger, I keep my mouth shut. Every driver in my family could tell you stories of Mom’s muffled screams and terrified gasps in response to, say, realizing the doors were unlocked, or that part of another driver’s trench coat was flapping outside his car door.
Although we all know about my mother’s road nerves, each time she shrieks from the passenger seat and holds on to the ‘oh shit’ handle like it’s a grip on the Titanic’s last lifeboat, our instincts tell us to assume the worst- perhaps she’s spotted a plane about to use the road as a runway, or maybe she sees a semi jack-knifing up ahead. But no. Someone is putting down his convertible top at a red light. The nerve.
That’s why I try extra-hard to stay silent in the passenger seat, so much so that Hubs actually gets annoyed with me for not doing enough to get his attention when I see trouble on the road.
“Oh great. That was a cop!” he says as we whiz by a patrol car.
“I know,” I sigh, looking back anxiously to see if he pulls out behind us. “I saw him when we came over the hill.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Hubs asks incredulously. “I was driving on the wrong side of the road!”
“I mean, I drummed my fingers on the center well when I saw him,” I say weakly.
“What!?”
I shrug and Hubs glowers into the rearview mirror. Fortunately, the cop must’ve been stuffing his face with donuts when we passed him, because he stays put.
After a few minutes, Hubs reaches over and squeezes my knee. Reluctantly, I look over at him and smile. This is what marriage is about, after all… A series of allowances along a road that spans a lifetime.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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