My parents rented out the home in which I grew up and moved across the country last summer, so staying with my mom has entailed navigating all new territory. My dad left a great map book behind and some clear directions, but even so, I find myself turning around on every trip out. Each time we have the same routine.
Mom: Coralie that was it.
Me: Oh darn it. (slowing, then stopping the truck.)
Mackerdoodle: Why we stoppin’? This nana’s house?
Me: No mackerdoodle, please trust mama. We’re looking for [insert name of town or road here]. Trust mama to get you there.
Mackerdoodle: (in a sing song voice) [insert name of town or road here] where are oo? (this is repeated until we either turn around again- which puts us back at the beginning of this dialogue, or find our destination.)
Mom says it makes her feel like she’s in a fairy tale, because we’re going through all these steps to get to grandmother’s house. I feel like a Dora episode, but that might just be because of the age of my kids.
After church on Sunday evening the mackerdoodle was tired. Instead of asking “where are oo?” when I turned around, she . . . well you know how parents say “Don’t make me pull this car over!”? I had to pull the truck over. I think you know where I’m going with that.
I dealt with the mackerdoodle, then kissed her forehead, had a little face to face chat about trusting mama and treating mama with respect and all of those things, and then we got back on the road. Seconds later there were flashing lights in my rear view mirror.
My heart sank. I knew I wasn’t speeding. All I could assume was that I had run through a 4 way stop or something while trying to find Rihneland road. I pulled over and got my driver’s license out of my purse. The officer approached and asked, “Everything alright? I noticed you stopped and then were driving slowly.”
I hemmed and hahed because I didn’t really know how to explain to a police officer why I had pulled the truck over, and the mackerdoodle was in the back seat saying “Why that man talkin to us? Mama? We turnin wound? Why that man talkin’ to us?”
He asked to see my ID, and his relaxed attitude snapped a little. “Georgia? Who’s truck is this?”
I answered, “My mom’s” at the same time that my mom answered “My husband’s” causing the officer to ask my dad’s name, to which my mother responded, but the whole time the officer was turning my license around and fingering it. “What’s with the raised plastic?” He asked suspiciously. “Oh it’s been sitting in my hot car a lot and it’s blistered.” He looked some more and then said, “So you didn’t make it in your basement or anything?”
I didn’t know what to say.
Then he smiled, handed the license back to me and said, “Have a nice evening.”
He followed us back to Nana’s house (down Rhineland road and past the tobacco field) and once we were safe in the garage he moved on.
Tuesday we have some errands to run in Tilsonburg, so we’ll see if I can manage to make the trip without all the drama. I doubt it, but I’m pretty certain as long as a wolf doesn’t eat my mom we’ll be okay.