Dissonance

My head jerks forward as my scraped up silver Range Rover Sport halts abruptly and dread bubbles up inside me, lingering in my chest wanting to burst forth, but it can’t.  He thrusts the car door open, angry for some eternally unclear reason.

Google maps versus Waze was it?  Or was I scrolling on Instagram instead of fulfilling my duty as navigator?  “Waaaah!”  Our five month old baby wails in the back, stirring up my inner turmoil, yet again.  The irony of the surrounding serene suburban shrubbery with a few scattered hydrangeas strikes me for a moment as I return to the customary claustrophobic commotion. 

I fly out of my seat to appease her and discover that her car seat seatbelt is undone.  He forgot to buckle it and I failed to check his work.  I pat her chest gently yet firmly, a trick I picked up from Cara Babies or some other social media maven.

I rectify the wrong and slink back into the passenger seat, though I know I don't belong there.  Five years prior, on a depressingly rainy day amidst a Hindu altar adorned with five figures worth of flowers, I made a vow to occupy that seat.  But now I ponder how to get out of this one and behind the wheel instead.