Driving me Crazy

Tallinn, Estonia

As parents we get constant, immediate feedback on our performance. Mostly from our children, who even before words and tend to be pretty straightforward. Chewing lunch and swallowing it might say “I love you mom, thanks for everything,” while the occasional upending of a bowl of homemade split pea soup could be loosely translated as “What did I ever do to deserve this and what were they thinking when they allowed you to be a mommy?”

The toughest critique, however, usually comes from your own head. Every decision we make, every time we say “yes you can,” “no you can’t” or “ask Daddy,” we’re wondering what kind of impact our actions will have on the grown-up Junior.

Lately it has occurred to me that the things Junior does now and has done his whole life are just as likely to affect my mental development, if not render me completely insane. Like this one day I found myself straddling the fence between normal 30-something-mother -of-one and rabid lunatic.

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Note to employees of the Estonian Department of Child and Family Services: The following anecdote may be inappropriate for some audiences, namely you. If you feel you might be offended or obliged to take legal action upon learning of a mother momentarily visited by a very reasonable lapse in judgment, I implore you, read no further.

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It was late on a Saturday afternoon, when Dylan and I had returned home from an afternoon of shopping and a trip to the park. I’d begun in recent weeks a bit of a routine, where, if time permitted, I’d allow him to sit in the driver’s seat of the parked car and ‘drive’ for 10 or 15 minutes.

In the passenger seat, I’d usually try to listen to the radio – nearly impossible with Dylan manning the stereo – and either read, or strategize how I would terminate the driving session I’d started without causing Dylan to implode in toddler fury.

On this sunny afternoon, his good behavior while shopping had definitely earned him a ‘drive.’ To give him the full experience I left the key in so that the lights, windows, stereo, and windshield wipers would operate. I’d put him in the driver’s seat, adjusted it so he could reach everything, closed the door and walked around the hood to take my place as the ‘passenger.’

Between the stereo, CD player, lights, wiper functions, and horn, there are at least 48 buttons to push in this car. The first one he chose, in the two seconds it took me to get from his side of the car to mine, was the door-lock button.

So, inside the car were my phone, my house-keys (which would have gotten me to a second set of car keys) and my 22 month old child. Outside the car was Mommy. And three Estonian construction workers in the parking lot next to ours.

I was not yet willing or able to leave the vicinity of the car to solicit the aid of these men, the only other humans near enough to work the miracle I sought. First, I’d thought, I would reason with my toddler.

I began pointing at the door-lock knob, securely in the down position. I began shouting like a madwoman: ‘Dylan unlock the door!’ The shouting was important because at this stage, though his father and I spoke only English to him, his first language was Estonian.

He knew exactly what the door-lock knob was for and he immediately found the button that might unlock it. Or not. He pressed the ‘lock’ end of the button. Again and again and again.

Irrationally, I’d begun to scheme. “I could get in through the trunk. But I don’t have keys. I could get the second set. But my house-keys are also inside the car. Dylan could, can, will, open the door! I know he can!” I looked in. He was washing the windshield. Again and again and again. Ow! Glass cleaner in my eye.

My biggest fear was that he would somehow activate the car alarm on the key that he kept  playing with. If it went off, it would be loud, he’d be afraid and frantic, and I, utterly helpless would have to…what? What could I do?

Another bang on the window. “Pay attention to Mommy!” But no. There he sat, blissfully unaware of his mother’s cruel reality, as he’d continued driving to his heart’s content. How much better could his world get?

Again, my eyes landed on the construction guys next door. “Here goes” I’d thought as I headed over to them and rehearsed what I’d say.

“My key is driving inside the baby and I would like to call you,” I’d said in a perfect Estonian accent.

The guy had looked across the parking lot to see my child inside the car, and said something to his buddies in Russian. “Oh no!” I’d thought, shoutingly. “Of all the bad luck, though my Estonian is perfect, I can’t speak Russian!”

He’d offered me his phone. “Yes!” I screamed inwardly. We, or rather, he was multi-lingual! Though it was more likely, he’d added together “[frantic mother outside of car yammering at me in – Portuguese?]” and “[happy baby inside of car]” and came up with “[trouble].”

I called the automobile assistance number and they’d promised to be there in 45 minutes. “NO no no no! That won’t do!” I’d asserted.  “My baby is in the car and I need to get him out NOW.” The best they could do was 45 minutes. I gave the phone back to the man and resumed banging on the driver’s side window thinking that if Dylan were distracted he’d not get us into a pickle.

He was ecstatic. “Mommy is outside, I am inside – how COOL is this?!”

MUST. GET. INSIDE. THAT. CAR. I chanted in my head in both languages plus Spanish, just in case the God of Dumfuckery was paying attention.

Okay. These guys in the next parking lot. It seemed there were about three generations of men represented there.” One of them must know how to break into a car,” I’d reasoned. Not to stereotype them, but hey, they had probably already placed me into an unflattering category of females based on the fact that I’d managed to let a 22-month old child lock me out of my own car.

A black karma cloud was never-the-less gathering over my head.

Again, I rehearsed my Estonian – it’s all I had.

“Do they learn to car inside crime now?” I complimented my question with some hand gestures and a bit of English: “Break in?” Much shrugging of shoulders. But come on. Three grown men and none of them knew how to break into a car? I gave them some time.

I asked again for the phone and called the police. They told me to call the automobile assistance number. I explained that I needed assistance NOW and not in 45 minutes. At that moment, looking across the parking lot I’d observed the three construction workers discussing and gesturing as to how they might break into the car.

The officer on the phone was asking for my address. Meanwhile, Dylan had somehow discovered the un-lock end of the button, I heard the ‘cha-chook.’ The car was open! I raced to open a door, apologizing to the cop on the line, my voice quivering with relief.

I’d waved and waved and thanked the construction guys. “Many helps for your thank you and gladly for its therefore!” Their relief also, was palpable.

While mine was short-lived. No sooner did I get the driver’s side door open, and Dylan had the nerve to start screaming about being pulled out of the car!

I said “that’s enough for today, little man,” and he replied clear as day, in English, ‘It’s a car!’