The Mom-Mobile
I am driving my dust-coloured mini-van. I keep my eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel. The other hand flails about searching the glove compartment/my purse/the floor of the van.
Mom, can you hand me the IPOD antenna?
The baby wipes. A napkin. A bandaid!
The bottle of water rolling around on the floor. Your milkshake. A bite of your donut?
A pen, please. Nail clippers? Ouch, a sliver! Tweezers!
Your purse. Money! The thingamadoodle. You know what I mean.
Mom, did you hear me?
I have contorted my body into a position that my chiropractor would not appreciate, a twisting yoga-for-drivers pose, which, improperly executed, might mean a hefty ticket for careless driving. Or worse.
I set my jaw and answer.
“You’ll have to wait a moment until I can pull over.”
This is a dream, of course. An aspiration. Not only do I struggle with delaying their gratification, I struggle with delaying my own, to deny myself, even for a moment, the sweet relief that comes from responding to their needs, however trivial.
And the Virgo tendency to do things immediately, organize and multi-task.
What can I say?
Pass me the kleenex box? An extra set of hands? A valium?