The Dangers of a Mom-Mobile

I would be smarter than to stick my hand in the crack of the seat of my car. I am fully aware of the myriad of mysteries that end up in that section where the horizontal and the vertical part meet, where everything that was once on the top of the seat gets pushed to or creeps along by its own will.

My husband, not so much. Which was why it I could barely drive for laughing so hard at what took place when he slid into the passenger seat.

I’m not sure what inspired him to reach in there blindly in the first place, but when he cried out in pain I bet he rethought his action.

“Ouch! Something sharp is in here!” he said, clasping his finger, which was cut so much that it was bleeding a bit.

He was probably thinking it was a decorative pin from a bag or a defunct paperclip. It might even be a sharpened pencil. That would make sense to the average person. However, to a mom, these would be anything but reasonable. So when he reached back in to fish out the dangerous culprit, I was not surprised to find out it was the crusty end of a granola bar.

Yes. A dehydrated healthy snack cut my husband’s finger.

I was laughing for a number of reasons. First of all, he stuck his hand in the black hole of a mom-mobile, something I wouldn’t do if my life depended on it. Secondly, of all the things on which to cut yourself, it was a granola bar and not one of the forty-five thousand French fry tips that are splayed in every crevice of my vehicle. (Those things are pretty dangerous, too. Beware.)

But the funniest thing about the entire episode was that he couldn’t understand how I could let my car get so dirty.

As if I really have a choice.

As if I really enjoy opening the door on a warm day and curling up my nose and wrinkling my lips at the fragrance wafting out, a sweet combination of spilled milk and wet dog with just a hint of sweaty kid who really should have had a bath last night.

As if I really like it when we swing through a fast food restaurant on a busy night and have to eat en route to the next event of the day. As if I encourage them to get the little vats of ranch dressing and fling those treacherous little sharp ends of fries around the car.

As if I really like it when we need to sit in the car for hours on end during one child’s practice and emit odors and create a ridiculous amount of trash that appears out of nowhere.

Because really, I’m here to tell you, I don’t like it.

I’d love to have a car like my husband, a nice clean car that compared to the real world would appear as a four star restaurant with linen tablecloths and fragile glass sculptures and open flames on every table. His car is neat, organized, and his seats don’t have layers of stains that could be potentially be used for radioactive dating, should we ever have the need. It always has a pleasant odor and never ever have I opened the door and thought I was sticking my face directly into a gym shoe of a Saint Bernard.

My car, on the other hand, wouldn’t be a restaurant at all because the health department would surely shut it down. There is trash on the floor and something sticky on the back of the seats. But for all the filth, the seats are well broken in and it is truly a home away from home for my kids. There are books and games in every possible compartment, a week’s worth of food cached away, and a large supply of hand sanitizer. This car is comfy and most definitely lived-in. Not only that, but it also is well-stocked with everything we could ever possibly need.

If you get hungry, there is bound to be something better than the granola bar in the passenger seat. But if that’s all you find, there are Band-Aids in the glove box.