Moving Too Fast - June 7, 2012

Since I had a kid, I’m terrified of speed.  No, not the kind you load up in a syringe or pop in your mouth with a glass of water (although that’s pretty freaky too).  I’m afraid of the kind that kicks in when I hit the gas pedal too hard; the kind we learned about in Physics class.  But the symptoms might be the same as the pharmaceutical kind: sweating, heart pounding, scary eyes and shortness of breath.

 

There’s a name for today’s phobia, so at least one other person must have it out there, tachophobia.  My case is conditional.  If I’m alone in the car, I’m ready to scream, “punch it, Margaret!”  If Babyface is in the car, I’ve suddenly aged 30 years, the wheel is gliding back and forth and my eyes are shifty.  After all, I’m carrying precious cargo.

 

Everyone is an a$$hole on the road, when Babyface is strapped in.  I’m pretty sure this is where she retrieves those random, mommy and daddy words we don’t like her to repeat.  I like to blame it on my husband, but he’s probably reading this.  I’ll still blame him, if her teachers ever scold me though.  Hey, I take her to school.  I’m the SAHM.  That’s my privilege.

 

I’m like a lioness (I won’t say tiger to keep from being classified with the Amy Chua-type) protecting her cub.  I’m just a terribly nervous lioness who’ll probably cause an accident, just from a shear lack of confidence.  That’s why I figured out a solution.  I stay off the freeway.  I only take side streets, so instead of taking 20 minutes to get somewhere, Babyface and I go on a long, road trip to get to museums, parks and shops.  Yes, you’re with stupid now.

 

Here’s where the self-deprecation is warranted.  I’d drink a glass of wine or a shot before I get behind the wheel, but I’m pretty sure that’s even more dangerous.  I’m pretty tiny, so an ounce of wine usually puts me over the legal limit.  I’d end up in the slammer and Babyface would be shacking up with CPS.  My dumb terror would be a travesty.

 

Since there is a clinical name for this, there must be other women out there who experience this when their kid is in tow.  How did you overcome this fear?  And don’t say anything to the likes of “just figure it out, idiot” or “are you serious?  You’re ridiculous”.  Both my father and husband have shared these “solutions” with me already.

 

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