Yes, they do it, each in his or her own inimitable way, even the ones who don’t really live here anymore. Now you personally may feel that your children mistake you for a wallet or a refrigerator, and yes, that does occur here at Hacienda Helena and I have to admit not that all that infrequently. But top o’ the list is a CAR. I understand that to a certain extent this confusion is the result of the massive number of hours we’ve logged in the jalopy over the course of their childhoods (and can I just insert here that requiring parents to drive TWO-AND-A-HALF HOURS round trip for a CYO lacrosse game on a Saturday at the MIDDLE SCHOOL level is the veritable definition of insanity. I mean what’s next? Spokane? BOISE?). In  any event, the fact of the matter is that year after year, the visual image of mother glued to the steering wheel was imprinted on their tiny brains as they progressed from car seat to booster seat to back seat to shotgun.  But–they do not just see me IN the car. No, no, no. In a deep, profound, perhaps even primal way (since it appears to be beyond the reach of language to articulate), my children believe that I am a car.

High school is a fifteen-minute downhill walk, but sometimes after staying up too late watching The Office on his iPad under the covers (no flashlight necessary), Penrod will stagger into my room at dawn fully dressed with his backpack on his back, stand silently by my bed, slowly tip over until he is lying fully outstretched across its foot (flinging away the velveteen rabbit beneath his elbow), and after a few more comatose seconds, summon from the depths this croaking command: “TAKEMETOSCHOOL.” Wow! Not only does he believe I am a car, but one with voice-activated controls! This means a pretty recent model so I guess I should take that as a compliment. Here’s another example: one afternoon last week, after we’d disgorged ourselves into kitchen post-insane-rounds with all our grocery bags/gym bags/library books/flotsam and jetsam, I flopped down into a chair and Sparkles rushed over with a glass of water, crying: “Mom! You need to gas up.”

As for Swoosh, well, last year when he replaced the tires on Harold (his 1984 Volvo wagon of song and lore), he put Harold’s old set under the blue spruce in the front yard for me to discover in the Spring when I crawled under there to saw off all the dead lower branches because I GUESS HE THOUGHT THE OLD BAG COULD USE A NEW SET OF TIRES BUT WANTED TO SURPRISE ME. And Miss O. recently gave me a large, round, wrapped gift, which I squished all over (don’t you do that?) to discover that there was a hole in the middle. When I tore off the paper I found a pillow in the shape of a giant chocolate-frosted doughnut. Perhaps you have seen this trendy item lately in nifty-gifty shops catering to girls of all ages. “Oh Darling!” I effused, “how clever! For the girl who has everything: permanent chocolate!”

But she took it from me and held it straight out in front of her, hands at ten and two. “Mom! Don’t you get it? It’s shaped just like a steering wheel, so you won’t be lonely at night.” What? My velveteen rabbit isn’t GOOD enough??

Dimples, however, is the one I’m counting on. He’s the youngest, but I’m confident that soon those neurons will fire up and he’ll get the picture. He’s gonna have to, because I could really use some new upholstery…and a paint job, too.