My commute used to be quiet “me” time–listening to NPR, an audiobook, or a few favorite songs to help me enjoy a moment of zen. It was the time between commitments and demands.
Now my commute–all 90 minutes of it–goes like this:
Twin A: “Mommyyyyyy, I said I want to hear ‘Electric Avenue’!!”
Twin B: “No, no! Play the techno-robot song [Daft Punk’s ‘Technologic’]!!”
Twin A: “I have a plan. We will listen to ‘Call Me Maybe.'”
Twin B: “I hate that song! It’s for stupid girls! Does grape jelly stain?”
Me: (pinching the bridge of my nose to ward off tension headache) “Calm down, guys. We can take turns.”
Twin A/Twin B: howl alternating verses from Black Sabbath and They Might Be Giants over the stereo.
SOS: Please help me–my kids have hijacked my playlist and my serenity. Send Terry Gross, STAT.