When I was 16 years old, 2 months and 5 days old I scored a 94 on my drivers test. 2 points were knocked off for taking my hand off the wheel as I made a right turn onto Elm Ave. and 4 points were knocked off for making a brief stop at a green light returning back to the DMV on High Street. I felt like I deserved a 100, but was so happy to get my license that day, that I quickly moved on with the start of my driving career. This day I had looked forward to since as long as I could remember. As my cocky teen years continued and self-proclaimed “best driver on the road” attitude skyrocketed, I made and shared an observation that to this day, I still think is pretty accurate: In general, men are better drivers than women.
For those of you that hate me right now, let me lay it out for you in simple facts. We boys (you’ll know in moment why I say boys) have been thinking, fantasizing, and studying cars and driving since we were barely two years old. Cars are in our blood. They excite us. They make us smile. Most of you girls out there started to think about driving on the first day of Drivers Ed when your professor pushed the Red Asphalt tape in the VHS and yelled, “Hit the lights.” At that point in my life, at 15 and a half years old, I already knew how to drive a stick and all of the rest of this stuff was technical mumbo jumbo getting in the way of me and my license.
For women, on the other hand, they’re smarter than us and they’re practical. They prepare in the same way, only for the hard stuff, like: relationships, the future… babies.
18 months, 3 weeks and 6 days ago, was my figurative first day of “Drivers Ed.” This is the day I become a dad. Unprepared. Unstudied. I knew what babies were, I just didn’t know how to… anything. I knew nothing about them other than they were really young people. Granted, I had the area of driving to the hospital very fast, totally covered. But once my son came into the world, my attitude went from “I’m the man of the house, I make the calls around here.” to “Honey, please tell me what to do so we don’t all die.” (I’m not exaggerating. Trust me. I wish I were.)
Guys, if driving a car is… well, driving a car. Bringing home a new baby is like flying a helicopter, while doing sudoku and only 10-20 minutes of sleep every 3 hours.
“Hey Mario Andretti? Real proud of ya, for driving that car around circles for three hours, try having a baby, Sporto!”
2 days ago, after a typical nights sleep (for me that’s about 5 ½ hours with only one middle of the night screaming pacifier wake up) I came home from work to the usual helicopter pad. A bruised up toddler with a scrape on his forehead, he’s got the early evening grumpies (probably because he needs to eat) he runs towards me with a diaper that smelled like a Tijuana baño. Tired from a long day, all I wanted to do was sit on the couch, in front of the TV, have a plate of spaghetti set down in front of my face and zone out. But my toddler had other plans, “Side. Side. Side!” Which in Caleb language is, “Hey Dad? Now that you’re finally home I have the best idea I’ve ever had! We should go play outside!”
Something that I’ve learned since my first day of fatherhood is that as tough as it is sometimes to sack up, I won’t get these days back. So (sigh) the couch and the TV can wait. So can the plate of food. As far as his dinner and the Tijuana diaper? I don’t know? Feed him? Clean him? What about diaper rash how does that all work? How much time do I have? Should I ruin this moment by being practical? Or let right now be the most important time in the world and share this moment with him? Guys, these are the questions that go through your head. Women just know the answers to this stuff. We have to guess, second guess and be prepared to be wrong. A lot.
Not convinced that I am making the best decision in the world, I let Caleb lead me outside. Past his favorite ball, his slide and all the way to his little red car. You know the one that I’m talking about; every child has this red car with a yellow top. It looks like a cartoon version of a car with a Fred Flintstone open floor. My, just under two year old, toddler climbs inside, grabs the steering wheel and starts twisting it back and forth. He looks at me with a huge smile, “Car. Car. Car!”
And for one prefect moment, the helicopter pad merged with the DMV, the baño smell subsided, my tired long day and growling stomach disappeared and a smile came across my face, too. Maybe I am getting the hang of this. Maybe I do know what I’m doing.
Caleb looks at me for confirmation on his discovery. And I gladly give it to him, “Cars, yeah cars are cool.”
