Thank You for Calling Passenger Princess Headquarters

My husband and I have been together long enough that our household roles are pretty well established.

I do a lot of things. Driving is not one of them.

I mean, I can drive. I have a license. A vehicle. Insurance. The state has apparently decided I am qualified to operate a motor vehicle. But do I want to? Absolutely fucking not.

I am a passenger princess.

And thankfully, I married a man who has accepted this about me.

I don’t know that we ever formally discussed it. There was no meeting. No division of household responsibilities where we sat down and decided who would handle dishes, laundry, children, and transporting said children across the county.

It just happened.

At some point in our marriage, my husband became the designated family chauffeur, and nobody questioned it. Especially me.

Kids need picked up from practice? Dad. Somebody needs dropped off somewhere? Probably Dad. Family road trip? I’ll be in the passenger seat controlling the music, snacks, and general morale.

I’m not useless. I would like that noted.

I’m providing support.

From the passenger seat.

This is not new information. My children have been raised in this system. Which is why what happened the other day was so confusing.

My husband is sitting at the school waiting to pick up our son from practice. My phone rings.

It’s our son.

“Are you here?”

Tf you mean am I there?

Have you met me?

“No. Dad is there. Call him.”

“What?”

“Dad is there. Call him.”

“What?”

“Your dad. He’s there. Call him.”

“What?”

At this point, I’m starting to wonder if we have a bad connection.

“YOUR DAD IS THERE. CALL HIM.”

“What?”

Sir.

Is your brain not loading?

I don’t know what part of this information was refusing to process. Dad. There. Call him. We were not discussing tax law. There were three pieces of information, and somehow none of them were making it through.

Your father is physically sitting at the school waiting for you. I am at home. Exactly where years of documented family history should have led you to believe I would be.

You have reached Passenger Princess Headquarters. We do not provide transportation from this location.

Please hold while I transfer your call to the Transportation Manager.

Your father.

The man who is already there.

Call.

Your.

Dad.

Because somehow, even when Dad is already sitting in the parking lot doing the actual parenting task in question, I’m still apparently dispatch.

And apparently dispatch has to repeat itself four times.