driving nowhere slowly
When naptime came early, my son and I ventured off on an unexpected road trip to nowhere, and it was a lovely time
The ride passed pleasantly.
I turned on a podcast, low, so as not to rouse my passenger, and stuck to the long and winding roads of my childhood, backroads that once stretched on forever and now felt short, too short for my journey. I moved over to let cars with hurried drivers pass me. I marveled at the idyllic countryside, at the sloping hills dotted in barns and silos and fields cows call home—scenes of my youth. And every few minutes, I glanced in the rearview mirror to check on my 13-month-old son, who slept soundly in his carseat.
I hadn’t intended on spending a sunshiney Friday afternoon enjoying a Lazy Sunday cruise. The day just sort of unraveled that way.
My husband and I have been working with a sleep consultant1 (a Christmas gift). The consultant recommended if our son falls asleep in the car—a rarity with this child—we should drive until he wakes up. The advice sounds ludicrous until you consider my son’s naps last less than 30 minutes. So the driving thing isn’t a terrible idea.
Last week, my little guy and I spent the morning at my brother’s house, where my brother Matthew and I enjoyed coffee and catching up while my son toddled about and pulled pots and pans out of drawers.
I timed our visit so that we’d leave my brother’s house and get home just in time for a go at naptime.
But, on the incredibly short drive from where we parked to the top of my brother’s driveway, my son conked out. When I looked at him, he was sleeping. Hard. Figures, I laughed to myself as I wondered how to best restructure the day I had planned. Since we were out, and since the to-dos waiting at home wouldn’t get done today, I decided my son and I should make a surprise appearance at my parents’, where I knew, even if my mom was working, my youngest brother would be around and probably up for a game or a chat or both. The ride to my parents’ would take about the amount of time my son would probably sleep, so I put on a podcast I’d been wanting to tune into, turned right out of the driveway, and followed a steady line of cars along a well-traveled stretch of road. As we approached an intersection, the light changed from green to yellow and I held my breath, nervous the sudden stop would wake my baby. When he slept through the red light, I knew the kid was deep in dreamleand. I breathed a sigh of relief and took the fastest route to the interstate, where several miles of uninterrupted road promised to keep my son sleeping.
The miles fell away. I listened to my podcast. My son slept. When we reached the exit for my parents’, I glanced in the rearview mirror. My son was a vision of peacefulness, his sweet face tilted down, lips pressed together like he was ready for a Hollywood close-up, long eyelashes striking in soft, early-afternoon light. He was so pure, so fast asleep, I couldn’t bring myself to veer off the easy miles of interstate. I drove past our exit. I passed the next exit. And the next.
I could not, however, pass the third exit; that would be committing to a very, very long drive, during which, I imagined, my son would wake, wondering where we were, uncomfortable in his car seat. Fussy cries would ensue, shattering the calm. The leisurely drive we currently enjoyed would turn into an anxiety-filled race, set to a scream-cry soundtrack, to my mom and dad’s. I took that exit and drove to my old office in a small city’s downtown. From there, I meandered along a twisting byway to a big farm, where a local family runs a country eatery and ice creamery. It’s the place my dad took my sisters and me every Wednesday for homemade ice cream—two scoops towering atop cake cones—the place we learned to play checkers. “Pappy will bring you here,” I whispered to my sleeping son before the grounds gave way to countryside.
My son and I came to a four-way intersection nestled between two ma and pa gas stations, plodded along the one-lane road, passed the brand-new fire station, which waved us onward toward more populated areas. Around the roundabout—I fought the urge to circle round and round—and, to the the right, my elementary school! By the time we came upon the back road that would lead to my parents’ back road, I was certain my son would be stirring. I clicked on the turn signal, checked the rearview mirror.
Still, he dreamed sweetly.
I turned off my signal and continued straight, into a neighboring borough. Found my way back onto the highway and started off on another adventure along backroads committed to memory, roads I haven’t taken in months, or years, because they’re the long way, and I’m always looking for the fastest way. My podcast continued playing. The sun shone. I lost myself in thought: This stretch of pavement the car followed easily, but I knew, from experience, it was a hill, because this hill was brutal to run. And it was here, I thought a few miles later, my high school friends and I stupidly walked in the dead of night, when it was darker than dark, for the thrill of it. This bend—were we insane, to take it as fast as we did, back then?
Unlike the younger version of myself, I drove slowly; podcasts, I noted, have replaced the top hits I used to blare and sing along to. The past I saw everywhere was replaced in the rearview mirror by the future, written on the soft cheeks of my sleeping son. We found our way off Memory Lane and back onto Route 19, then again to the back roads, and, after one hour and 13 minutes of driving, my son stirred. I looked up, watched his eyes flutter open. He turned his head this way and that, getting his bearings. His long arms reached high above his head.
“Hiiii,” I cooed, turning off my podcast. “How’d you sleep? That was a good nap!”
I didn’t tell my son, now smiling, ready to interact, to play—and, probably, eat—that it figures, on the one day he naps long, we’re stuck in the car, instead of home where I could be ticking things off my to-do list. I didn’t tell him because maybe I needed the car ride to nowhere as much as he needed the rest. Maybe, instead of shoveling down lunch while writing an essay or making calls for a freelance story while the laundry hums in the basement; maybe washing the dishes while counting the minutes until productivity time ends and active motherhood begins again; maybe doing, doing, doing isn’t meant for every day. Most days are for getting things done; or, at least, trying to. Most days are a balancing act between active, present parenting and work (including chores, and writing, because even if you love the work, even if you invent it for yourself, in the case of this little Substack, it is work). Most days are long and short and jam-packed from start to finish. But some days are for drinking in the beauty of the place in which I grew up. For learning something new through listening to a long-form podcast. Some days are for admiring your son’s easy breaths and pouty lips and beautiful little face while he sleeps.
Some days are for cruising. And I’m so grateful for the drive to nowhere.
Thanks so much for reading first drafts. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this essay in the comments, especially what worked and, perhaps, what didn’t. :) Fellow moms, if you have a good nap-trapped story, please, do share! :)
Katherine Mansfield is a former journalist turned full-time mom who has great fun making up deadlines for herself and sharing the essays, short fiction and poetry she pens to this one-woman, reader-supported publication, first drafts. If you like what you read, please “like” or share with someone who might also enjoy this piece. If you really like what you read, please consider tipping the writer or becoming a free or paid subscriber. No matter your level of support, you support for this little passion project is so, so appreciated. :)
The consultant was a Christmas gift. I won’t go into details here, other than to say I never knew I’d need so much help helping my son learn to sleep. Maybe I’ll write about the experience at a later date. :)
Beautifully written! I felt like I was in the car with you two. Very quietly, of course.