North Star Writers Group

On the way to work this morning, as I do every morning, I was thinking about my one-year-old son. We’d just finished playing an intriguing – well, to him, that is – game of rolling the ball back and forth on the ground. I was thinking about his cute smiling face when all of a sudden, a car attempted a left turn right in front of me.

I slammed the brakes. Looked in the rearview mirror to make sure no surprises were coming at me from behind. Breathed in and out, just to make sure I still could. Then, pulled back into traffic and kept going.

My days of road rage are over. In the past, I’d have cursed under my breath – or really loudly depending on the severity of the other driver’s offense. And I most likely would have cast a dirty look, or maybe a dirty hand gesture, just to show the other driver my frustration.

But just like my nights of staying up at all hours to read, watch movies or dink around on my computer, being a mom has changed all that. It’s calmed me down a little. It’s made me stop and think before I say and do things. And it’s most definitely given me more patience.

In fact, parenting him is a lot more like my typical, incident-free morning drive to work.

First, I have to choose just the right MP3 track to kick off my drive. On Mondays, it’s usually one of my favorite comedians. I find it helpful to get in a good bout of amusement before spending six straight hours in meetings. Likewise, my favorite thing to do before putting my son to bed is to instigate as much laughter as possible from him. I figure if he’s going to dream, and not going to see his mom or dad for the next seven hours, he should go to bed having laughed so hard, his little belly shakes.

Thankfully, this is fairly easy to do. Just like a good comedian can always make me giggle, he just needs a few upside-down dips, some tickling and my very sophisticated monkey impression to do the trick.

The rest of the week’s tracks are determined by mood. Some days, I need some of Jimmy Buffet’s slow love songs to remind me that I’m loved at home before I get beat up on at work. Other days, I need to hear ’80s hair band music to get an early start on being a rock star for the day – cranking out work, running meetings, biting the heads off chickens. Wait, just kidding about that last one.

Similarly, much of my evening time with my son is determined by his mood. There are nights when he loves to eat, and his dinner takes 50 minutes. Other nights, the second bite gets spit onto my white shirt and we quickly move on to more interesting things, like playing on a blanket in the yard. He’s also got a bit of rock star in him. Some days, he likes to bounce, roll, dive off pillows and scream. My husband and I call them “concert nights,” as he can perform these feats for nearly two hours, while we clap, sing and whistle like the adoring fans of his that we are.

After choosing my listening preferences each morning, I get into much more of a predictable routine. My trusty protein bar and one diet ginger ale ride to work with me every day, without exception. It’s taken me nearly 10 years to find this perfect wake-me, don’t-starve me, but don’t-make-me-fat breakfast combination. It’s probably not recommended by any doctors, but hey, at least it’s not a doughnut.

My son has his non-negotiables, too, which I had no idea could happen before the age of one. For example, only pears and bananas go with oatmeal. Oatmeal cannot be plain. Peaches cannot go with oatmeal. Don’t even think about berries.

About once a week, I make extra stops on my way to work. I leave a little early to hit the gas station, dry cleaners or the drugstore. Also about once a week, I drag my son somewhere he probably doesn’t want to go. Like the grocery store. Or anywhere he’s required to sit strapped into something, unable to exert his freedom. To him, this is like prison. I’m quite sure it makes him feel as awful as I do when shelling out insane amounts of our hard-earned paychecks to have pressed clothing.

Ultimately, every day, I do pull into the parking lot at work. I grab my laptop, head up the steps, flash my ID at the security box, and say a small thank you prayer that my badge still opens the door. Most of all, I remind myself that I’m lucky to have made it there safely, having not done any damage to my car, another’s car or any people while air guitaring or crooning.

And every day, I put my son to bed. I say a small prayer that I also didn’t do any damage to him that day, like teaching him a bad behavior or saying the wrong thing when his little ears were on alert. Most of all, I remind myself that I’m doing the best job I can as a mom, and that I’m lucky to be one at all.

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This is Column # CD049. Request permission to publish here.