When I think of roadtrips and soundtracks, I think of college, of friends and heart-to-heart conversations. I think of miles and miles of America’s landscapes whizzing past as we followed the road before us, careful to stay between the lines.

My oldest child, Sam, turned eight this summer, and with this milestone, he earned the right to ride in the front seat of the car for the first time in his life. He enjoys it immensely, and I have to admit that I like it as well.

We were on our way to a playdate recently, when he decided to serve as navigator. I hadn’t asked him to be my guide, but he ended up holding the directions, and reading aloud to me.

“We need to drive to ‘Lewisville,’” he said.

“Lou-a-vul,” I said.

“It says ‘Lewisville,’” Sam protested. “L-O-U-I-S-V-I-L-L-E. Lewisville.”

I hate correcting my kids. I cringe whenever I have to do it, and I’d honestly rather let them learn by trial and error so they don’t lose face in front of their mom. On the other hand, though, I want to be proactive and seize learning opportunities wherever we can outside the classroom.

“It’s spelled that way, I know,” I said. “But you’ve lived here all your life, and you know that around here we say ‘Lou-a-vul’ even though its spelled like ‘Louis.’”

Sam was quiet for a moment, then he referred to the map and said “Turn right to go to Lewisville.”

I let it go.

When Sam used to ride in the backseat, he spent most of his time staring out the window and fighting with his brother. Now that he’s riding shotgun, it’s a whole new scene.

“Go white boy, go white boy, go!” We were on our way to school, and six-year-old Seamus was singing in the backseat of the car. I simultaneously enjoyed his rendition of “Play That Funky Music,” and wondered if I should say anything about his casual reference to skin color.

Finally, he asked me if I liked the song. “Yes, honey, I do like the song. But…you know, ‘White Boy’ isn’t really nice thing to say.”

“What’s a white boy?” he asked.

Front Seat Sam to the rescue, again. “It’s a boy who wears white pants, white shoes, and white gloves.”

“What about his hair?” Seamus asked.

“That’s white, too,” Sam explained.

I can neither argue with this reasoning, nor did I want to. I remember reading once that children do not identify racial characteristics until they are taught them by others, and I’ve never wanted to be a party to building stereotypes.

My kids are growing up rapidly, and our changing family dynamic has brought all kinds of opportunities for discussion. I expected their parents divorce to affect my children, but I didn’t expect little things like seat assignments in the car to prompt so many different conversations.

I always knew that small children were dynamos of self-evolution, requiring a ninja-like swiftness for change from their parents — but I have to admit that in all the hubbub of the changes in my life, I temporarily lost sight of how fast they are changing, themselves. Perhaps it is natural for parents to become accustomed to their children’s childish natures, but that’s silly, really. They don’t stay little forever, no matter how dearly we hold their childhoods in our hearts.

There may not be a roadmap for parenting, or anything more than a loose set of directions from InfantTown to Off-to-College-Land, but there are some definite landmarks along the way. The funny thing is that even though we don’t know what they’re going to be, we recognize them when we pass them by.

Finding a little front-seat guru spouting navigational directions or lyrical clarification in the co-pilot seat was not something I ever gave a moment’s thought to, but I’m so glad this moment is here. I want to take a postcard photo from this leg of our family’s journey. I want to remember forever the day my oldest got involved in his little brother’s social education, or the first time he dealt with the Lewisville/Louisville pronunciation issue.

All three of these boys are sources of milestones, every day. Little things, big things, so many that they pass by in a blur. I get the feeling it won’t be slowing down, either.

My roadtrips nowadays are shorter, and the soundtracks often come with a different kind of commentary, but the discussions are no less heart-felt, even if they only take minutes to complete, instead of hours. I have traded in the young adult commentary of new adulthood for the innocent discourse of young life. Thank God for seatbelts.



Leslea M. Harmon is a freelance writer in New Albany, Indiana, and the mother of three young traveling companions. Follow her journey at twitter.com/LMHarmon, or send her a note via Leslea.Harmon@Gmail.com