“Let’s take the shortcut,” my son often suggests as we head to
school.
I smile that wry smile of a parent who knows better, and
explain that his way takes longer. “This IS the shortcut,” I say, in that quiet, paternalistic way that still chafes me when I hear it from others.
Like most nine-year-old boys, he is not so easily deterred.
So, one morning when we had the time, I took the exit from
the bypass (where I was driving 70 miles per hour in a 65 mph zone) onto the
business route, and into town. “It’s 8:31” I said. “Let’s see what time it is
when we rejoin the usual route to school. We entered Main Street and slowed to
45 mph. We passed the Barnes and Noble bookstore, where he, his mom and I often
get coffee and read or study. We passed the turnoff to our “other kitchen,” the
Mexican restaurant where we dine at least once a week.
We drove past the store above which is his karate school,
then past the hospital where his mom is a student nurse. Finally, we crossed
the bypass and slowed to a stop at the traffic light where our normal exit
meets Main Street. 7 minutes. And, I pointed out, we had green lights all the
way. If we’d not caught the light green at Route 114, it would have been 9 or
10 minutes. Staying on the bypass would only have taken three minutes to cover
the same distance.
“But", he said, "I still think my way is shorter.” OK… I’ll
grant him a certain stubbornness that comes genetically from his mom, but he’s
smart enough to know that 7 is much larger than 3.
Then I realized that he doesn't measure time the way I do.
His “shortcut” had many more visual stimuli than the bypass.
Many places he recognized, places with many positive experiences. Even the red
lights are “faster” if you get to look into the car next to you, and view the
traffic crossing on the side street. What makes my route “faster” is the very
absence of such stimuli. It’s a boring, limited-access highway with banal
scenery and no traffic lights.
If time is measured in seconds on a clock, my way is,
without question, faster. If time is measured by the seconds in between
stimuli, the three minutes on the bypass go with painful slowness.
I’m driving him to school, not competing in a NASCAR race. Four
or five minutes rarely make the difference between being on time and being
late. To a nine-year-old, becoming aware of significant locations in his life
and their relative position on the way to school is an important part of
learning. There are days he may not learn that much, trapped in a classroom for six hours. Not to mention, saying “yes” to a nine-year-old that costs me nothing
but four or six minutes is a rare opportunity for me. He hears “no!” far too
often.
So today, we took a different “short-cut.”
