"Beat On The Brat"

One of the most depressing days of my life was when I heard the following cliche: the cleanest that your car will ever be is on the day you buy it and the day you sell it. As someone who strives to keep his posessions looking as new as possible, this devastated me. Even though I stepped up my efforts to rid my car of dirt, I secretly knew this revelation to be true.

Last year, at my job as a managing editor for two monthly publications, one of the perks I receieved was free car detailing in a trade deal involved with acquiring an advertising contract. We run their ads. They clean our cars and pay us for the privelege. Works for me.

Most of the people I worked with were single. Only two — not counting me — were married. Only one had kids. When detailing day rolled around, can you guess whose car took more than an hour to clean every time? It wasn't mine — that took them all of five minutes since I'd pretty much already done their job for them. I remember standing on the porch of our building watching the detailers take jackhammers and pressure washers to the car of my co-worker with kids to blast away the Cheerios/raisin/peanutbutterjelly globs that had become part of the upholstery. That was as good a birth control method I'd ever seen. Kids equal mess. Mess equals stress. Stress equals a loaded gun in a crowded shopping mall and we don't want to down that road, okay?

I have a strict list of what Connor is allowed to consume in my car, which mostly includes dried, non-sugary foods, such as animal crackers — yes, vegetarians eat animal crackers. Spare me the jokes, please. But, after every trip, I find myself scouring the backseat for stray pieces of food, which I invariably find tucked into the most obscure corners and crevasses.

Stacey once found a dead cockroach in the carseat that's in her car, which was enough to make me want to strap Connor to my roof. I know now that's a felony. Lesson learned.

In order to preserve my relationship with my son, though, I don't blow a fuse when he wings his crackers at my head, or stomps the back of my seat with his dirty feet. I just try and stay on top of the mess, but the day I find a dead roach (or a live one) in my car, fuse blowing will most certainly commence. Don't make me angry, boy. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

You wanna let this kid ride with you?