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Illustration by Catherine Chan
Imagine 103 hours on Highway 401.
That’s how long I spend each year on North America’s busiest highway between our home in Vaughan and my parents’ home in Scarborough – with my two- and five-year-olds in the backseat.
As strange as it may sound, I’ve come to look forward to those drives.
Don’t get me wrong, I used to dread the 40-minute drives. Especially with the bumper-to-bumper traffic in the summers; listening to Baby Shark on repeat; and my frantic front-seat pleas of “why are you crying, Ethan? Do you want to play with this, uh, sunglasses case instead?”
I distinctly remember one swelteringly hot afternoon in the traffic crawl. I can still feel the thumping in my chest upon hearing my then one-year old cough and gag uncontrollably. Obscured from sight in his rear-facing backseat, I could only count to calm myself: One, two, three, four. The seconds stretching into eternity as I pulled over to the highway shoulder.
A soul-searching snowbird wonders: should we take our RV down south this winter?
I recall my trembling hands and muted panic at the thought of him choking. It turns out my son had vomited some of his snack and I wouldn’t need to attempt a Heimlich manoeuvre on his tiny body. I hadn’t noticed the telltale signs of vomit earlier, largely due to my exhaustion and absent-mindedness.
That afternoon, I committed to being more present during the drives, and in my parenting.
Some winter mornings driving eastbound, we’ll watch the sun rise and peek through the Yonge Street condo towers – and later see the sky turn a tranquil orange-red while it sets on our way home. Often, my younger son will giggle and randomly shout out “Bus! HAPPY!” with a sing-song voice I know will fade far too soon.
I’ve also subconsciously memorized (this year’s) large pot holes to avoid, all while fielding an array of off-the-wall toddler questions. I’m enjoying (now) how the dynamic has changed. From one child to two. From counting red cars to counting in multiples of 7s. From my son asking me about favourite dinosaurs to asking about what happens “when people go up to the sky.”
In many ways, the drive is now almost automatic. And that’s what I fear; I fear the autopilot. I fear the moments together vanishing without thought.
As my sons prepare to launch, I’ve learned that the best way to hold on is to let go
So, I’m striving to reflect on my change, as my children change. In truth, I never expected how much I would dislike aspects of parenting, while loving being a parent. Like focusing on making the express off-ramp, I’ve found myself too distracted by the rote daily minutiae to enjoy the moments together.
I often rush through the day’s to-do list – unwittingly focusing on completion, rather than connection. But I’ve had a lot of time to think about the type of parent I am, flaws and all, and the type of parent I want to be. I’ve since learned three things.
First, I need to let go of control. As I’ve learned uneasily (and painfully) over the past five years – control does not fit with, well, kids. Many drives used to be punctuated with a “Wait, don’t nap, Liam. You won’t sleep later! You want to listen to The Wheels on the Bus, again? Anything. Just-please-don’t-nap.” Now, I (try to) refocus on the bigger picture. Because a 23-minute nap taken on a Friday afternoon means very little; my older son singing an impromptu lullaby while his brother sleeps means a lot.
Second, I sometimes fixate too much on what I need to do tomorrow that I don’t fully notice today. Sometimes, I don’t realize that my son is really telling me about self doubt when he opens up about a tough day with a classmate.
Last, and most importantly, I’ve come to understand that connection is measured in the mundane moments. I used to romanticize the flashy vacations and the picture-perfect family moments. But bonding, at least for us, revolves around re-reading a certain Dr. Seuss book for the umpteenth time; talking ad nauseam about Pokémon (I really wish the franchise had stopped at 151); and reclaiming the less glamorous moments as anything but.
I’ve since learned that parenting, teaching and connection compound slowly – almost unnoticeably – over time. In many ways, these drives have made me a more present parent by slowing things down (thanks, 401) and creating space for deeper connection.
On a recent drive, my son asked, “Baba?” before the perennial, “Are we there yet?”
I think about the calm, predictable and peaceful drives without them. Then answer:
“Not yet, buddy. Just a little longer, please”
Tom Du lives in Vaughan, Ont.
