You show me a woman who hasn’t fantasized getting in the car and leaving home and I’ll show you a woman who doesn’t drive.”
~Susan Sussman, in her novel Time Out From Good Behavior
Show of hands, moms: who has never clenched her car keys so tightly they made red indents in her palm, and fought the urge to run away… far, far, away? I know the feeling well. Seriously? I have four kids and an ex-husband… you do the math.
Sometimes it was the kids fighting, or just plain being mean to each other. “Whose kids are these?” I’d think. “Certainly not mine.” And the voice in my head would say, “Run! Run!” Or I might have been hunched over a checkbook, trying to figure out which bills absolutely had to be paid, and which could wait until the next paycheck.
I might have been feeling guilty–for oh, so many things. Not being a good enough mother, being too permissive or not permissive enough, and the weight of parenthood would come crashing down. Why did I ever think I wanted to be a parent? I shake my head and find myself with keys in hand; the car beckons me. I take one step. A second…
“Mom! Tommy just spit on me!”
“Did not!”
“Did so!”
A scream echoes down the stairs. My mom-senses know it’s a scream of anger rather than pain, but reality hauls me in and I must respond.
I sigh, slide the keys in my pocket, patting them to be sure they’re at the ready.
“All right, you guys, knock it off!”
Did I just hear my car laugh at me?
Susannah Willey Writes 