My five-month-old daughter Senita is supervised for almost every second of her life.
There’s one giant blind spot where she’s left to fend for herself; a place where her cries go unanswered and her discomfort unnoticed or ignored.
That place is her car seat when I’m driving on my own.
The police station employees who installed her car seat were adamant that I not add mirrors letting me see the baby while I’m driving.
They said that it becomes a projectile in an accident and distracts me from keeping my eyes on the road.
Yet it also creates the odd dynamic where, for large chunks of time, I have no idea what’s going on with my daughter and near-total immunity from responsibility.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t driven a few extra laps around my neighborhood to enjoy these moments.
I may look crazy circling the block over and over again, but it beats looking stupid. When it comes to driving, stupid’s look is best described as “Baby on Board yellow.”
Jenny and I discussed getting a “Baby on Board” sign after Senita was born but unanimously agreed that they’re ridiculous.
What are Baby on Board signs supposed to accomplish?
Rules of the road must apply universally across the board or else there’s chaos.
I can’t suddenly slam on my brakes because baby on board is merging onto the highway.
How are other drivers supposed to adjust to this information?
The only foreseeable adjustment would be to provide a little extra space if I park next to you but drivers instinctively do that anyways for their own ease and comfort getting in and out of their own door.
If anything, the Baby on Board sticker makes me hold that driver to a higher standard. Changing lanes without a turn signal? This is how you act with a baby on board!? Shameful!
Yet I understand the impulse to make unusual decisions when driving with a baby on board.
Driving with a baby is surreal.
You’re not actually alone but there’s nobody to talk to and she’s still young enough that you can listen to adult-oriented music or podcasts without worrying about her talking about that gangsta life or losing hope in humanity by hearing anything about our current political climate.
We keep Senita in a rear-facing car seat that’s strapped into the back passenger-side seat.
When she gets to shuffling all I can see is the tip of her right foot. If she were a teenager this is where she’d go to sneak alcohol or write poetry about how nobody understands her.
I like to think that she uses the alone time to reflect on life but she’s likely more interested in literal reflections. Nothing impresses her quite so much as passing from sunlight through a shadow.
She’s a good passenger. A long enough straightaway or winding country road usually puts her to sleep in no time. It’s getting past the gauntlet of red lights and stop signs between my house and those opportunities that proves challenging.
For the first three months she cried at every stop sign or red light and it broke my heart not to be able to comfort her.
I gave her a set of plastic keys to keep her entertained. The rattling sound relieves me by letting me know that she’s okay, but also dashes my perpetual hope that she’s fallen asleep.
I love my daughter very much, but never more than when she’s sleeping. I’m pretty sure she feels the same way when we’re alone in the car together and one of my favorite songs comes on.
It’s in those moments that I wonder if the police were really looking out for Senita when they insisted against using mirrors to create a sightline between us.
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