When I was a young mother, I was earnest.
So earnest that I read a book called How to Raise a Creative Child. I’m sure there were many efficacious ideas, but the only one I remember implementing was the one about driving. Instead of traveling the same route to a typical destination, say the library, you were supposed to mix it up. Get outside the groove. I earnestly suggested this to my forbearing husband.
Curt had a way of humoring my silly notions and having fun at the same time.
“Let’s turn on H instead of G” I’d prod. [Can you believe it? Our city planners named the streets after the alphabet!! Their mothers hadn’t read the book.]
“Oh, is it time to drive creatively?” he’d ask. And he’d drive as if we were in a go-cart at the fair, broad curves, on the wrong side, herky-jerky brakes, coming to a stop in the middle of the road. [We live in a small town and this was always when there were no other cars on the road.]
The boys loved it.
“Daddy, drive creative!” they’d scream, never quite knowing if or how Daddy was going to obey the command.
Those fun memories came to me on our recent trip to Seattle. We went through four or five roundabouts. If you look up roundabout in the dictionary it will say “a method of traffic control designed to produce creative children.” Seriously, if my son had not just gotten his four wisdom teeth and a few shards of jawbone extracted yesterday, I’d make him write a paper on the engineering design of roundabouts. Someone must believe they are beneficial; they are slowly replacing traditional intersectins. Before Seattle, I’d only seen them in New England.
Curt will have his fill of driving creatively in Scotland and England. He’s already nervous. I offered to move the gear shift knobs while he pushes the clutch in, an offer which fails to bring him comfort. We hope that we don’t run out of petrol, bang up the bonnet, blow a tyre running up a kerb, crash into a lorry, or rear-end the boot in front of us. Translation here.
Any roundabouts in your neighborhood?