The Front Seat

The morning of September 8th, 2009 found me prancing around the house, gaily clicking my heels and excitedly singing "It's the most won-der-ful tiiiime of the year". This was no Yuletide cheer, it was the realization (prompted by that old Staples commercial) that summer was over and the start of school was upon us. After fixing our lunches, pouring a truck driver-strength cup of coffee and pushing my daughter out to the car, it was time to drop the bombshell: "You can sit up front". The last time someone gave me such a puzzled look was twelve years ago after my first semester of college when my mother asked how I managed to fail all of my classes. On this day, my daughter had a similar look of shock and confusion that almost took me back in time and made me start explaining how the multitude of F's on my report card in no way reflected a lack of effort on my part.

My daughter sat in the back seat all of her life. Her body acquired the shape and flexibility required to extract one's self and belongings from the back seat of a Mustang without making oneself look too ridiculous. But along the way, she also began to develop Andre the Giant-esque proportions that her doctors say put her in the 97th percentile of children her age. So it was getting harder and harder for her to peel off the Mustang that was attached to her bottom every morning. Needless to say, she only listened to roughly half of that explanation before hopping in the front seat with the world's biggest smile on her face.

The 15-minute trip to school was a long one. She asked what every knob, button, lever, switch, gauge, needle, number, handle, light and symbol was for...at least twice. I also failed to account for the generous amount of personal space offered - even in a coupe - when someone is riding behind and slightly lower than you in the back seat. In the front seat, all bets are off. We rubbed elbows for the majority of the trip, my ears were assaulted by a voice seemingly designed for a concert hall or sold-out arena, and my peripheral vision was filled with a girl who thought it would be funny to see how long she could stare at me before getting me to say something.

It was an experience for both of us; one I'm sure she will never forget. Her head grew two sizes when she got to school and climbed out of the front seat - on the first day, with her hair done and new clothes on. Thirty years later, I can still remember the first time my mother let me ride in the front seat (although some may consider putting a shorts-wearing child on a sun-scorched vinyl seat - whether front or rear - child abuse). And I now know why parents say they can't wait until their children have children so they can sit back and laugh as they go through the same experiences.