Jewish World Review March 15, 2002 / 2 Nisan, 5762

Lori Borgman

Lori Borgman
JWR's Pundits
World Editorial
Cartoon Showcase

Mallard Fillmore

Michael Barone
Mona Charen
Linda Chavez
Ann Coulter
Greg Crosby
Larry Elder
Don Feder
Suzanne Fields
James Glassman
Paul Greenberg
Bob Greene
Betsy Hart
Nat Hentoff
David Horowitz
Arianna Huffington
Jeff Jacoby
Marianne Jennings
Michael Kelly
Mort Kondracke
Ch. Krauthammer
Lawrence Kudlow
Dr. Laura
John Leo
David Limbaugh
Michelle Malkin
Chris Matthews
Michael Medved
MUGGER
Kathleen Parker
Wes Pruden
Sam Schulman
Amity Shlaes
Roger Simon
Tony Snow
Thomas Sowell
Cal Thomas
Jonathan S. Tobin
Ben Wattenberg
George Will
Bruce Williams
Walter Williams
Mort Zuckerman

Consumer Reports


Birth of a Pothole

http://www.NewsAndOpinion.com | It is that time of year when our teen-age daughters begin complaining about potholes. Not that potholes, or chuckholes as they call them, dotting the city streets are a problem, mind you. No, they have no problem with chuckholes whatsoever. As a matter of fact, if either one of them is behind the wheel of the car and there is a chuckhole in their line of vision, it has been my experience that they are able to hit it dead center eight times out of ten.

They are drawn to chuckholes like heat-seeking missiles. They will be cruising along a thoroughfare when an enormous chuckhole appears ahead in the road. There will be another lane parallel to the one in which they are driving, a lane completely uninhabited by motorists, pedestrians or road kill, a lane begging to feel the warmth of tires, a lane they could easily drive in. Instead, they size up the hole, calibrate angle, speed, and approach, and BAM! Down we go! BAM! Out we come as the car bounces off the bottom of the crater and the horizon is once again in sight.

After several excursions punctuated with potholes, the girls have been known to return home and say, "Dad, something is wrong with the car. It seems to pull to the right." You don't say.

The problem the girls have with chuckholes is that their father insists on explaining where chuckholes come from. Ordinarily, he does this on the days he drives them to school (because the car they drive is in the shop, a small matter of having the alignment adjusted and shocks replaced).

"Girls, potholes are nothing more than the process of freezing and thawing. The road freezes and contracts. Then, the sun heats up the road, causing the road to expand and the pavement to crack. Water seeps down through the cracks. The water is soaked up by the mixture of rock, gravel and sand that supports the road. The weakened asphalt eventually cracks under the continued impact of tires and a pothole is born."

The girls like Birth of a Pothole even less than Birth of a Dandelion. When they were younger, the talk served a purpose in the same way Grandma and Grandpa's cassette tape of luau music from their cruise to Hawaii served a purpose. It would put them to sleep. Now that they are older, they have been known to politely protest the pothole discourse.

"Mom, he did it again. The whole chuckhole routine all the way to school."

"And what did you learn, girls?"

"That there is no limit to the number of times Dad will repeat himself."

His educational approach may not be culminating in the intended outcome, but the pothole lecture is not without benefit. When I hear the girls engaged in some argument over the blow dryer, or an article of clothing, I simply say, "Just wait 'til your father gets home. I'm going to have him sit you both down and explain chuckholes!" They moan and groan and immediately comply with my every whim.

Or if there is some reluctance to cheerfully perform a household chore, I just say, "The choice is yours. Load the dishwasher or listen to the chuckhole lecture." Some times they even wash the glassware by hand. And sing.

The girls announced yesterday that they heard city crews will be out in a few weeks filling potholes. "Now what will Dad talk about?" one said with a grin.

"You girls are slipping if you can't remember what comes in the rotation after potholes," I said. "The price of gasoline."


JWR contributor Lori Borgman is the author of I Was a Better Mother Before I Had Kids. To comment, please click here.

03/08/02: When Enron Momma gets mad
03/01/02: Little hope for bookaholic
02/22/02: Wrestling with prejudice
02/15/02: Say What?
02/08/02: Kitchen intelligence
02/01/02: Age-old words
01/25/02: Abortion: Switching Sides
01/18/02: Kids, take note
01/11/02: The heart-stopper e-mail
01/04/02: The slightly sunny side of 2001
12/28/01: The Way Things Work
11/30/01: The Leftover Shuffle begins
11/27/01: Glasses bring age into focus
11/16/01: A different portion of Thanks
11/09/01: The Next Stage of Parenting
11/01/01: Of boys and patriotism
10/26/01: College Son the Invisible Man
10/19/01: Out of the closet ... and into the school
10/12/01: A Parent's Guide to Dating
10/05/01: "Taking Care of You"
09/28/01: Time indivisible
09/24/01: Refueling capitalism
09/14/01: A time to mourn
09/07/01: Lack of modesty stirs the troops
08/31/01: Scholarship search an education
08/24/01: The test for parents
08/17/01: Immodest proposals
08/10/01: Trying to R-r-r-re-re-relax
08/03/01: It may be shabby and chic, but it ain't cheap
07/20/01: Bride showered with sage advice
07/13/01: Baby Bear Finds Driving "Just Right"
07/06/01: Pale at the Thought of Bronze
06/29/01: A Dog's Best Friend
06/22/01: Rethinking fatherhood
06/14/01 Don't forget to lock the door
06/07/01 How grandma punishes her kids
06/01/01 Hearing voices
05/25/01 Cyborgs for Better or Worse
05/18/01 The death of Common Sense

© 2001, Lori Borgman