My son limped off the field just before half time at the last football game. I thought it might be a cramp or tiny strain. The injury was something I’d never heard of, a high ankle sprain. Hubby and I figured he’d be out for the next game but then we wondered if he could drive his car, a manual shift. If he can’t put pressure on his left foot, he can’t press down on the clutch . When we brought this up to our son while he sat on the medical bench at the field, he smiled.

“Looks like I’ll be driving one of your cars.” he stated confidently. Glad he could see the up side.

On Monday, my hubby had an appointment to get new tires for his car. I could either drive my son to school like the olden days, or, let him take my three-month old car. He assured me he only parks near very respectful friends to avoid door dings. I really didn’t want to reinstate my taxi services so I made him SWEAR to call me when he got to school.

“Are you serious?” he asked incredulously.

“Absolutely. It’s my baby.” He looked a little hurt, like I knocked him off his pedestal. “You can’t wreck the car or you will never drive again.” I, stated confidently.

Unfortunately, I was left with his car for the ten-minute ride to work. I can drive a stick; I’m just a little rusty. We got a manual drive car for our son so he couldn’t text while driving. Seemed like a great idea at the time.  When I got into his car, I found out you can’t adjust the frigid temperature or the RAP BLASTING radio while driving either. My son likes his car to feel as cold as the Arctic tundra; he’s pretty hot after football practice. I sucked up the chill thinking I could last the ride rather than fiddle with buttons, too many buttons to decipher. But the music, I couldn’t hold out. What the heck?

He listens to movie scores and old jazz tunes at home while he does his homework. Where is that kind of music in this car? I’m trying to watch the road and look for the radio station buttons. I found “volume” to turn down the “boom, boom, let’s do it all the time, boom, boom.” What is this x-rated stuff?!? And what are the neighbors thinking as he boom, booms out of the neighborhood.  Sometimes, there a things a mother is better off not knowing.

Which one?

After scanning the MULTITUDE of black buttons, impossible to discern at a glance, I eventually found the radio buttons that aesthetically blended into the black dash. As if I was playing a game of pin the tail on the donkey, I pressed whatever button my finger blindly landed on only to find ANOTHER RAP STATION. I’m about ready to swear worse than a rap song until the next random button I hit got me to Taylor Swift. OH THANK GOD! I had one minute of peace before parking.

At the end of the day, I watched the clock tick, tick, tick after 6 pm, wondering if my son was trading insurance information with the guy he just rear-ended and that’s why he was taking so long. Turns out, he was watching football film in preparation for the game he’s not playing in on Friday. As soon as he walked in the door I him with the all important question.

“How is the car?” I frantically asked.

“It’s fine.” He said with an eye roll.

Relieved, I asked him, “Isn’t it the best car?”

“I hate that car! I couldn’t figure out any of the controls. (Poor thing.) Thank GOD my blue tooth automatically synced up. (LUCKY.) The gas pedal is touchy so it to speeds up suddenly and the brake is slow to brake.” He ranted for a full two minutes. When we got the car in July, he named my car “Snowball” because it’s white and rounded in the back as if it’s missing a trunk. The two together, my son and Snowball, were doomed from start.

“I LOVE my car. You just don’t know how to drive it. You would love it too after driving the GREAT WHITE BUS (aka Sequoia) with 2002 technology!” I stated a little too defensively.

I loved hearing about his miserable drive and his frustration over the controls. Priceless. It was worth every freezing, rap song minute.