Baby on Board

Yesterday, I saw an orange “Baby on Board” diamond dangling in a minivan. I remembered seeing lots of those signs in the eighties, but I thought “Baby on Board” had disappeared, like torn Flashdance clothing, excess black eyeliner and fluffy hair.

As a twenty-something, I thought the signs insinuated that I had some control as to whether I collided into the parents’ car. “Oh no, they have a baby on board,” I would tell my college friends as we drove to the I-Beam nightclub. “We’ll have to rear-end someone else!”

Now, I can see the point of a baby on board sign. It is not a warning FOR others drivers, it is a warning TO other drivers. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve held the wheel with my left hand as I reached back with my right hand to locate and then stuff a pacifier into my screaming infant son’s mouth while driving sixty miles an hour.

While navigating the steep hills of San Francisco, I have inserted the “Lilo and Stitch” CD and read the cover to locate the “Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride” track to sooth my irrational, but inconsolable, three-year old daughter. Driving across the Richmond Bridge, I’ve torn open a bag of Goldfish with my teeth, only momentarily taking my eyes off the road.

Now, my kids are six and eight, but they still affect my driving in a negative way. My son and daughter recently started arguing whether the Easter bunny is married like Santa Claus. After their disagreement escalated to punches, I had to arbitrate, while signaling to make a left turn off Sir Francis Drake Blvd.

Occasionally, on the way back from school, my children say titillating phrases like, “My knee bled all over the place today.” or “Nobody is my friend anymore.” I get to be a counselor at thirty mph.

Anyway, may be I should get one of those “Baby or Kid on Board” signs. Of course, I’ll only hang up my diamond when cell phone users, tooth flossers and make-up artists display their own symbols as well.

By Beth Touchette