During my soccer mom era, my most favorite responsibility was carpool. Not the dumb drop-off and pick-up at a certain middle school that shall not be named, but the haul-six-kiddos-to-practice, minivan-required type of ride. I loved being a fly on the wall, eavesdropping on adolescent conversations and getting the scoop on the latest tea. It was a literal window into my children’s lives, and I cherished every minute. Sadly, driver’s licenses put an end to my parental spy operations.
But recently, I had the chance to relive my chauffeuring glory days. Our oldest turned 25 and decided to celebrate with four buddies at a bourbon-tasting experience in Louisville. I was already heading there for a baby shower and offered to drive them. Oh. My. Lord. What a hoot!
Initially, they were censoring language and topics, but soon forgot I was there and/or realized it didn’t matter if they dropped an “F” bomb or made a “your mom” joke. Within 20 minutes, I was hearing about girlfriends and work drama and questionable bodily functions. I learned who was the best at NBA trivia (not my son); who could be trusted on the golf course (also not my son); and who was the resident history nerd (yay, my son!). The return trip was even more fun as they recounted their day-drinking activities with far fewer inhibitions and many more swear words. I even got to orchestrate a Wendy’s run, albeit with inebriated grown men instead of muddy little 10-year-olds.
So, not exactly the same as my soccer mom era, but close enough to make me sentimental. I do miss the carpool!
Peace out.
