At the age of 13, your child will reach a milestone, a step in the journey toward man- or womanhood. This is a time of excitement, of change and upheaval, of adjustment for the whole family. Whether you like it or not.
What I’m talking about, of course, is that at age 13, your child can now ride in the front seat of the car.
Some of you may recall that in the olden days there were no ‘rules’ about this, no guidelines for passenger safety other than ‘Wear your seatbelt, doofus’—and even that was a voluntary thing, as was having your skull bashed into the windshield, for instance, until each state passed a seatbelt law. In Maryland, that didn’t happen until 1997. We now also have laws about when your child should ride in a car seat or a booster, and we have guidelines from the National Highway Transportation Safety Administration, based on crash data, telling us when it is safest for kids to ride in the front passenger seat—that is, not before age 13.
Some parents probably allow their kids to sit in front a lot earlier, either for practical reasons, or because they’re tired of the begging. As if it’s so much better up here, where you can see Mommy texting at stoplights (I said, at STOPlights, okay?). All I know is, even now, when my son sits in front, the air bag shuts off. It’s programmed to do that because below a certain weight, a passenger can be seriously injured by a deploying air bag. Not particularly comforting. So, much to my son’s annoyance, I put off this “milestone” as long as possible.
But, safety issues aside, I put it off for one other very good reason: As long as my son was in the back seat, he could not reach the radio.
I had 12-plus years to brainwash him on classic and alternative rock. He is now paying me back with Lady Gaga and Katy Perry. Excuse me, but have I not paid my dues? Did I not faithfully attend all those kiddie music classes where we beat bongos and danced to Cotton-Eye Joe? Apparently not. I have to start all over with his musical education. I have to persuade him, for instance, that Queen performed songs other than “Another One Bites the Dust,” which, if I hear it again, I will bite the dust myself.
Other than “No throwing things,” “No shrieking,” and “No leaving the cap off of the blue Gatorade,” there are two simple rules in my car:
- When I am driving, I decide what we listen to on the radio.
- When someone else is driving, I decide what we listen to on the radio.
What? What’s the problem?
It took a while, but my husband now understands that there will be no Yes and no Rush in my car. Bad things will happen. And don’t even think about Jethro Tull, or someone may need an Aqualung.
Last week, my son begged me to play music from “this century.” So I did. I played Hole.
He said, “What is this?”
I said, “Courtney Love. She has a new album out.”
He said, “How long ago did it come out, 10 years or 10 months?”
“Would 10 months be ‘new’?” I asked.
But now I think we may have reached a détente. We’re both trying to be more open-minded. I’m willing to listen to Pink, on occasion, and he has expressed admiration for the new Ray Davies album.
If this is a template for future coming-of-age sagas, we might make it through after all. As long as, you know, he doesn’t change the station.
For more from Paula Whyman, see www.paulawhyman.com and her online parody newspaper www.bethesdaworldnews.com.
