From James Lileks’ Mommy Knows Worst: Highlights
from the Golden Age of Bad Parenting Advice.
And you're likely to be heirborne, should Mom ever slam on the brakes. It's not
exactly bolted in place, is it? Then again, I come from the era when children
rode in the front seat, facing a sharp metal dashboard tailor-made for
decapitation, held in place by nothing more than melted thigh-skin adhering to
the hot vinyl seat covers. How did we survive? Mom's right
arm. For many generations, a mom simply knew that when she had to brake
quickly, one hand should shoot over and brace the child. A good mom could do
this while hydroplaning, braking, and checking her mascara in the rearview
mirror. It was an instinct so deeply bred that my mom was still giving me
karate chops in the sternum when I was in eleventh grade.
The
current baby seat is much superior to these devises: Well padded, lightweight,
so safe you could hit a wall
doing Mach 3 and the kid would burp, at most. But just try to give a used one
away. Our local charities kindly decline the offer, fearing the legal
repercussions should the seat malfunction somehow, so everyone either passes
them along or throws them away.
When
the archaeologists of the future plow through our landfills, they'll find a thick,
chunky layer of plastic car seats, but no Tiny Tourists.
They were all melted down for
ammo for the Vietnam War.
I well recall as a small child having my forward motion being halted in
a car by the same method Lileks describes: Mom’s right arm. As my mother was a
strongly built French-Canadian woman, this was nearly always as traumatic as I’d
imagine hitting the dashboard could be.