Whenever I’m unsure how to bond with one of my sons, I put him behind the wheel of a car.
The fact that half of them are 11 years old doesn’t change this.
Three of the boys wanted to go to The Husband’s softball game Tuesday, but the big, sweet twin (age 11) wanted only to stay home.
He was sick of everyone’s quarreling.
“Do you want to play chess?” I asked.
His blue eyes turned up, mournful. He shook his head.
“Do… you want to go for a walk?”
Big-Sweet sighed and shook his head again.
Something thrummed in my back pocket; some little metallic token zinged into life electric.
It was my car key, requesting attention.
I looked at Big-Sweet: the mildest of my four firebrands.
He’s the one who likes hot chocolate, good books and the color yellow. The one who just nods and walks away when someone insults him. The one who doesn’t march into my bedroom to blast me with a flashlight at 1 a.m. and demand to know who’s been eating from a bag of Cheetos he hid in his room two years ago.
“Do you want to drive my car?” I asked.
Big-Sweet beamed. Then he looked down.
He decided I was joking with him.
“Very funny, Mom.”
“No, truly,” I said, fishing out my key and handing it to him. Our house sits at the end of a long, usually-vacant dirt road. “Drive my car.”
And he did, with me in the front seat murmuring directions. He drove our circular driveway twice, then the dirt road near our home three times, then a neighboring dirt loop four times.
Big-Sweet’s driving style is best described as a granny taking all her gal friends and a priceless China collection to an antebellum tea party.
I leaned back, exhaled, and watched the birds flirt with one another overhead, grateful we live out in the country.
Then the other boys got home.
“I got to DRIVE!” Big-Sweet told the little, feisty twin.
“SWEET!” shouted Little-Feisty. “Can I drive, Mom?”
I gulped. “Sure.”
Though I cautioned Big-Sweet that there might be danger, I couldn’t persuade him to stay home. He wouldn’t miss the sight of his twin driving for the first time, even if it meant trouble.
Big-Sweet is older than Little-Feisty by 14 minutes. So he takes the role of older brother seriously.
I gritted my teeth as the three of us piled into my little car.
Little-Feisty gripped the wheel and stared down our neighborhood of dirt roads and winding canals.
I threw a goodbye kiss to my home and thanked the Lord for the 35 good years he gave me on this earth.
“You ready to see some STUFF?” Little-Feisty asked Big-Sweet, who was buckling his seatbelt in the back seat.
“Um, no,” answered Big-Sweet. “Driving isn’t a joke.”
Little-Feisty cackled. He roared out of my driveway, signaled left, turned right, winged onto the canal bridge and nearly clipped a boulder.
Big Sweet gaped. “I CAN NO LONGER TRUST MY TWIN!” he shouted.
An atomic dust plume shot down the dirt road. We were somewhere inside it.
“DRIVER PICKS THE MUSIC” yelled Little-Feisty, flicking my radio onto the rock channel while dodging a cottontail.
“Stop sign,” I grunted.
Little-Feisty didn’t stop.
I bellowed: “STOP SIGN!”
Little-Feisty braked so hard my brains and intestines traded places.
He turned and grinned at me. The two dimples in his cheeks, and the stray third one on the right side of his chin deepened.
We both looked back at Big-Sweet, who was curled around his seatbelt in the fetal position.
“You OK there, big fella?” asked Little-Feisty.
“HOW are we even TWINS?” shouted Big-Sweet.
Little-Feisty wrinkled his nose. “We’re not,” he chirped. “You’re adopted!”
And he flipped a U-turn and sped home.
Back at the house, I fixed hot chocolate for the twins and for their older brothers (ages 15 and 13), who were visibly offended that I’d let the “babies” drive the car.
The older boys have also been driving since ages younger than I care to admit in a public-facing column.
“Great,” muttered Middleborn. “You’re turning them into outlaws.”
“I turned YOU into an outlaw,” I countered.
Elated, Little-Feisty giggled until hot chocolate came out his nose.
As for Big-Sweet, he was no longer mournful about the constant quarreling, haggling and fighting of living in a house with three other boys.
He was eyeing his twin with suspicion, wondering what other deadly vices lie latent within their shared DNA.
And, gripping his mug with both hands, Big-Sweet whispered, “I’m just glad we’re still alive.”
Clair McFarland can be reached at clair@cowboystatedaily.com.
