Over the past eighteen months our cars were in purgatory. Two had batteries that expired from neglect, since we barely went anywhere. Recently though there are days when John and I each turn ignitions, and since the twins came home they do too. 

 

As it happens we still own cars that accommodate five or six people even though our pattern has become ensconced in solo travel. But I recall a time when we drove separately, together. In our move from California to Pennsylvania he maneuvered the 22' van while I steered the blue car. This was long before GPS gave personalized directions, so John spread paper maps across the seat beside him. All I had to do was follow the truck. In spite of the fact that my body was being ferried at sixty miles an hour, my mind slowed down. I did not, could not make decisions, nor do laundry, nor referee my kids in the back seat. We had no clever inter vehicle communication as we do now, so I didn't even formulate opinions about when to stop for lunch. I just kept my foot on the gas and followed the tail lights.

 

A cross country move is an epic moment in the history of a family, and looking back I am grateful for the chance to simply comply. After a taxing month of tedious decisions, "Which belongings to toss, donate, or bring?", it was soothing to leave all that in the rear view mirror. I was not remotely tempted to fling open the door of the truck, renege on choices about kids' boots and toss them on the shoulder of the road. 

 

Sometimes my frontal lobe is firing on all cylinders, and no one had better get in my way. But there are other periods when it's all I can muster to plod in the same direction, since recalibrating requires more cognition than I have at my disposal. 

 

It's then that I am grateful for the Navigator.