Ever since my first child arrived on the scene 10 years ago, everything about driving or being in a car has become stressful. Just getting the car out of the garage is a challenge. In the beginning of parenthood, outings were wedged between meals, naps, and crying jags (mine and theirs) and involved packing bags and hauling equipment and twisting my back into impossible positions as I loaded and buckled the kids into their car seats in our two-door hatchback.

Later when the kids were preschoolers, things improved slightly when we left diapers and strollers behind, and everyone was responsible for wiping their own noses and butts and buckling themselves in. Now with elementary school kids in tow, our goal is to eliminate whining and food purchases on car trips. Even a 20-minute drive across town must be treated like a trip across the Sahara with adequate food and water supplies taken along. Andrew is always thirsty, Emily is always hungry, and both are persistent in keeping thirst and hunger issues on my personal radar, pinging their requests and complaints to me in neat intervals until I feel my brain is being microwaved. Now I know why dogs hang their heads out the window when they’re riding in the family car.

Yesterday we proved once again that even going to church can be traumatic as various parties got into the car and then got out again—“Go comb your hair,” “Grab a sweater, it’s chilly,” “You are NOT wearing those shoes to church,” “Wait! I just want to start the washer,” “Leave the (insert toy name here) at home” and the ever popular, “Did you check the lights (and/or) windows upstairs?” By the time we get in the car for the tenth time after rushing around and fighting over who should be doing what, we’re all in a bad mood. We’ve already violated most of the Ten Commandments.

So it’s no surprise things go down hill from there. As E-Man is driving, navigating the ever dynamic Belgium traffic, I keep clutching my heart and flashing back to The Day I Was Creamed by the Tractor-Trailer and the months it took to recover. While I’m freaking out about cars, pedestrians and bicycles threatening to collide with the car on the passenger side, the E-Man is telling me in an increasingly loud voice to shut my pie hole (not using those words, mind you) and he begins lecturing me on safety, reminding me that I don’t even drive here and he does. He delivers his message in his self-righteous, ultimate driver voice, which I HATE.

To counter the smug “safety-lecture voice,” I employ my “superior church lady voice,” as I remind him that damn it, he is NOT perfect and that sometimes my concerns are justified—like when he has headed down streets in the wrong direction or nearly mowed down a pedestrian in a crosswalk, ignoring my escalating cries of “stop, stop, stop!.” The Muslim woman who almost met Allah that day in the crosswalk reached out to touch our car as she jumped out of its path. The journalist in me saw an international incident in the making. Headline “American Male Kills Muslim Woman Walking to Mosque.”

E-Man accuses me of over reacting, and he asks me if, at this moment, I am wearing prescription glasses. (Let the record show I was indeed wearing my prescription glasses from Lenscrafters, thank you very much!) I resist the urge to remind him he is BLIND in one eye. I don’t smack him because I don’t want to ruin his good eye. (See how NICE I am?) Instead of punching him, I tell him that having an accident of any variety in Belgium will be a nightmare unmatched by anything we faced in the States. (“I KNOW that already! Don’t you think I know that! I’m not stupid!”)

By the time we arrive at church, I’m ready to call a lawyer on my cell phone and start divorce proceedings. He’s ready to suggest medication and a straight-jacket. Above all, as we walk into church (separately I might add, because damn it, I’m not SPEAKING to him), we’re wishing we didn’t have to smile and look like a nice friendly family. We are two people squelching murderous impulses. We are not June and Ward, we are Ozzie and Sharon.

All I have to say is that in the car, Silence is Golden. And Jesus better arrive with the Premarin M&Ms soon—and bring some duct tape for our pie holes.