I remember taking my driver’s license test when I was 16. I was nervous but passed without a problem, which meant I was certified to handle a vehicle in a controlled environment – without children. Twenty years later, I was introduced to a new type of driving – one in which you attempt to concentrate on the traffic while your seat is being kicked by a three-year-old, who’s singing Old MacDonald Had a Farm at the top of her lungs and pelting you with Cheerios. They never mentioned that in the driver education class. I’ve petitioned the Federal government to require that all children have a warning label sewn to their shirts. It will read, “Do not operate heavy machinery if this child is in the seat behind you.”

But I throw caution to the wind and routinely operate heavy machinery with four children -- ages four months to nine years – sitting behind me in our mini-van. One recent trip to the grocery store was particularly harrowing.

“Dad, I found half a Wendy’s cheeseburger under my seat. Can I eat it? I took the lint off it already.”

“Dad, Maria’s looking at me! Tell her to stop!”

“Dad, would you turn on the music…not that CD, the other one…not that song, number 12…turn it up, I can’t hear it…”

“Can I open a window…But, Dad, I can’t breathe in here…What do you mean my incessant talking is sucking all the air out of the car…”

I usually suggest my kids bring a book in the car to keep quietly entertained. My philosophy is if they won’t allow it through airport security, I don’t want it in my car either. The kids ignore my advice and smuggle contraband toys into the van.

“Dad, I can’t get the test tubes from my chemistry set to stay in the cup holder. They keep falling out…What do you mean I shouldn’t have brought them in the car…You never want me to use it in the house because it’s too messy.”

I make a mental note to hose out the car later in the day. One time I found a clump of radishes growing underneath a seat. It was a discarded school science project. You wouldn’t think radishes could grow like under a seat. I think they had been watered with juice boxes and fertilized with cookie crumbs.

“Dad, Maria won’t look at me any more but I want her to!”

“Hey Dad, guess what? I found some French fries in it to go with the cheeseburger…Maria, stop grabbing my French fries!”

I glanced in the rearview mirror. It looked like the Battle of Gettysburg if it had been fought with stale French fries. The carnage was gruesome. But it may have just been ketchup stains.

Then I backed the car out of the garage. Next time I’m taking the bus.

© 2005, Timothy P. Bete

Tim Bete's parenting advice has been published in dozens of newspapers, magazines and Web sites, including the Christian Science Monitor, Atlanta Parent, Big Apple Parent, Northwest Family, FathersWorld.com and ParentingHumor.com. His first book, In the Beginning There Were No Diapers, was a 2006 Foreword Best Book of the Year finalist. His latest book, Cap’n Billy “The Butcher” MacDougall’s Guide to Pirate Parenting: Why You Should Raise Your Kids as Pirates and 101 Tips on How to Do It, is a Parent to Parent Award Winner. Bete’s hobbies include pushing his luck and skating on thin ice. In his spare time, he’s director of the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. Visit his websites www.timbete.com and www.pirateparenting.com

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