Getting a jump on transportation troubles

I have passed on many remarkable traits to my daughters; chief among them, extra-ordinarily large hand pores and the ability to watch trash television uninterrupted for ten hour intervals. This week-end was another lesson about the generational impact of hereditary characteristics as both Sydney and I suffered from varying degrees of vehicular melt-downs. Prior to heading to Buffalo on Saturday, Savannah asked, "Do you know how to get to the Galleria Mall?" Insulted, I assured her of my directional prowess and foolishly, she believed me. Exceptionally foolish as she has been with me each time I've been flummoxed by the monument round-about in the center of Warsaw. But nonetheless, off we drove and, before we knew it, were hopelessly lost. Sydney and I handle getting lost as an inherent part of our day. Savannah is not as accepting and free-spirited, desperately calling her father and adorably looking for helpful street signs. I continued driving, knowing that, unless I accidentally drove to Canada (which has happened), I will inevitably end up at my planned destination. Our forty-minute window gave us the perfect cushion to eventually bumble our way to the mall, walking into the movie just as the trailers began and buying Savannah an extra-large buttered popcorn to pacify her. Noting his four missed calls, Brad had a pretty good idea of what had happened to his girls. "Your mother is unable to differentiate 190 and I90," he explained to Savannah while Sydney and I sat there, confused by their conversation. Obviously, this isn't our problem, we thought, it's a typo of the highway department.

Sydney's vehicular problems were less about getting where she needed to go and more about actually getting going. She insisted on accompanying Savannah to RIT today and shopping while her sister was in class. I will admit that active prayer was implemented throughout the day as Brad and I imagined our Sweet Ba-boo, who has difficulty finding her way out of the school parking lot, navigating the busy traffic of Henrietta. Turns out that prayer in that particular facet was unnecessary (or successful) as Sydney had a productive shopping day and earned four dollars to boot by taking a survey about toothpaste. Meanwhile, distracted and afraid, I inadvertently ordered fried macaroni-and-cheese balls for lunch. Fortunately, Brad ordered shrimp with rice and shared. I ate the shrimp. He ate the rice.

Returning to the van, we heaved a sigh of relief. She'd made it. But no...the phone rang. I listened to the staggered breathing on the opposite end and my heart stopped. "Is Dad listening," she asked shakily as I raced through the list of possible catastrophes in my head. "Uh-huh," I replied softly as she began to sob. Front-end collision? High-speed chase? No...dead battery. A child of the 21st century, my darling daughter had forgotten that Savannah's car was old-school and that the lights did not turn off automatically.

A lot of important life lessons were learned this week-end. Sydney got some practice using jumper cables (or at least, holding jumper cables, until someone else came along to attach them properly for her). She'll always remember to check her lights. Savannah will never trust her sister with her car again. She will also never trust me with directions again. I'm not sure what life lesson Brad learned. It's always best to stay at home? Only order food your wife doesn't like? There's not much my girls can do to combat the effects of their unfortunate hereditary traits  (I'm sorry, by the way). However, the effects of life lessons such of these can alter the course of how they live their lives in a very real and productive manner. Now, if only we could get New York State to edit the lettering of their signs to stress the difference between 190 and I90.