Front Seat Soapbox

I have this little moment of time every day at about 7am. Now often I'm barely out of my pajamas, my coffee is always with me, sometimes just that first little bit from the coffee maker that tastes like a shot of espresso on a good day and like used oil on a bad one. Sometimes my son has to come and remind me that I'm supposed to get up and drive him to school. It's a small price to pay for going to a school that is different than the one he's assigned to--I get up and drive him there. Except of course most days now he drives me, and yes he can feather my ancient clutch nicely up a steep hill now, and hardly ever almost kills us by pulling out when I just wouldn't have. But some days, oh some days I get on some rant. It's about a 6 minute drive, we're not talking far or long here, but we listen to public radio and you just know how opionated liberal white women like me can climb right up on a soapbox and well, just rant. I do, I rant. My poor son mostly just listens. The other day we were driving in the dark, dark, morning that comes at the time of the soltice here. And somehow we got on the topic of daycare. Daycare. I've been an at home mom by calling and choice from day one. I've almost always worked some job, but I've never had a child in daycare. Sometimes in the early days we had to have a garage sale to pay the rent, or paint an apartment building for rent. But there was never one day of daycare. Funny, because I grew up in a daycare center run by my mom. And before my mom's 10 years it was run by my grandmother for 20 years. One of my first jobs as an adult was in an infant room of a daycare center. Really, I beleive passionately in good daycare, and went on and on about this to my poor son as he made his way around the tricky corner, and up the big hill. I ranted about child development, and opression of women, and government eliteism and even the mistakes I think the early feminists made.

"You know" he said. "Sometimes it's like my mom just kind of steps aside and there's this big sermon that comes out of you."

"Ooo" I said, "sorry."

He said that no, it was alright, and he just kind of seemed to take it as a part of who I am. He got out, took his lunch and his monster sized backpack and his swim bag, said good bye. I got to say "love you sweetie, have a good day." I walked around to the passenger side, got in.
And I drove home, post rant-- wondering, how on earth did I get so very lucky? A teenager who listens to my rant. Takes it all in stride.

Luck. It's all him. But, I am so very lucky.