Car Sick

My eight-year-old son hates riding in the car. HATES it.

I think he secretly wishes that, like Dorothy, he could click his heals and be instantly transported to his desired location. If only it were that easy.

To be fair, the boy didn't always despise the car. At first, he would only complain when I had to drag him all over creation on series of boring errands. I would simply tell him that this was just a part of life... that there would be countless things he would have to endure in the future.

As the years have gone by, his disdain for car rides has grown. At the mere mention that we might be going somewhere, the boy's immediate question is, "Do we have to DRIVE there?" As if we are going to walk home from Costco carrying 900 rolls of toilet paper, 40 gallons of pure maple syrup and a 20 pound block of cheese on our backs.

I am convinced that if I told the boy that after a ten minute car ride he would arrive in a magical land where he could play drums while simultaneously fishing in a snowstorm and watching Muse perform Supermassive Black Hole while enjoying a delicious meal of sushi, waffles and Reese's peanut butter cups that he fed to himself using his beloved pocket knife, the child would choose to stay home. Or he would try to walk there... or maybe ride his bike. Seriously.

Most parents lose sleep at the thought of their child getting a driver's license. Not this Mom. I am actually looking forward to the day when the boy can drive himself around. At least then I won't have to listen to all of the grumbling.

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