New Archive:
June 2001 Issue
Driving Lessons
By Allison Kaplan
We were driving to dinner at that point in a developing relationship where the potential is so tangible you could squeeze it--you sense this moment might be the last that you could turn away, but you absolutely can't bear the thought--when it happened.
Rustin nearly sideswiped a Pontiac.
Within inches. Inches! I slammed on my imaginary passenger seat break and screamed, "ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL US?" And he yelled back, "Do YOU want to drive?" and I said, "Sure" and he muttered, "Whatever. You do know there's no brake on your side."
And we both sighed heavily and pretended that my parents in the back seat hadn't heard a thing.
Strangely, my parents didn't jump in to offer a Life Lesson or tell me I had a "chip on my shoulder" as they surely would have had I yelled like that at my little brother. My mother and father smiled and nudged each other and then it hit me.
We were them. I had already accepted that I am a carbon copy of my mother--from slamming imaginary car brakes to the very same clicking in our jaws. But there was more. That old theory about a girl seeking out a man like her daddy? I did that. My dad is a terrible driver.
He's also patient and thoughtful and not afraid to cry. He has answers to all of my questions, and even the wrong ones sound convincing. He's awkward at parties, but charming in small groups. He forgets names and sometimes dates, but makes up for it with surprise bouquets of beautiful wildflowers, just because. He does all the icky jobs like cleaning gutters and taking out trash and removing dog poop from the backyard.
He also drove all the early morning carpools and late night junior high party pickups without ever complaining. He rode with me in a U-haul that lacked a radio and shocks on my seven-hour, post-college trek from Minneapolis to Chicago, and then slept on a futon when we got there. And he's really good with LEGOS.
Rustin is patient and calm and flexible when I change my mind at the last minute. He answers all of my questions and can do percentages in his head. He also prefers intimate dinners to loud parties and forgets names and never remembers what we're doing on the weekends.
But he too brings flowers, and always explains why he picked each particular one over all the other blossoms that didn't look anywhere near as good. He did the gutters at my parents’ house this year because my mother didn't want Dad on the ladder. He drops me off at the door when it's raining.
I think I wasn't looking for someone like my daddy so much as I took for granted that the man I married would have to be just as thoughtful and sweet and patient and wise.
When I realized Rustin was all that (plus super handsome), and that my parents completely, smugly approved from the backseat, I suppressed the urge to prove them wrong. I'm not a complete idiot. But I insisted to myself, and others, that Rustin was a little wacky and unpredictable and not precisely the man my mother would have wanted me to be with.
For example, when we met, his key chain was a large, hideous rubber chicken, which hung from a belt loop and bounced against his hip. "He's not going to wear that at your wedding is he?" my mother would insistently inquire, much to my delight.
Truth be told, I didn't much care for the key chain either. Until the day when we were at a store and a little kid bounced right up to Rustin to yank on his chicken.
Oh, no--crazy, wacky, different just adds up to great father material. Curses! My parents win again.
When we merged our lives, I had to find a spot for Rustin's collectibles, which outnumber all of his other possessions 3-to-1. I would have been annoyed, except the biggest box contained discontinued Sesame Street figures.
He says they're too valuable for kids to use as playthings, but come on--Sesame Street figures!
Rustin often answers the phone at 11:00 a.m. in his sleep voice, which is not a great way to show the parents you're a go-getter. He also stays up working half the night, which bugged me at first, but now I see that it could be quite handy one day for 3:00 a.m. feedings.
Yikes. I'm not ready to be a mom. But thanks to my husband's emerging parenting potential, he's got me day dreaming about an adorable little Rustin giggling as his daddy makes a Big Bird doll sing and dance.
Of course, I could do with the kid being less hyper than I hear Rustin was as a child. And God willing, a better driver.
Send comments to Allison at
Singlstyle@aol.com
lifestyles
| fiction | politics
| daily buzz | relationships
| culture | social
action | spirituality
| chatroom | J-TV
giude | win stuff |
e-postcard | about
us | archive | disclaimer
|
|
