In 500 feet, sing “If You’re Happy and You Know It” over your child’s piercing cries.
In 2 miles, realize you were too tired to notice the irony of your song choice over your child’s piercing cries.
In 100 feet, regretfully pause your podcast.
In 20 feet, play CocoMelon on Spotify to cease your child’s piercing cries.
In a quarter mile, remember that New Yorker profile about the questionable practices of the studio that produces CocoMelon.
Turn right and turn off CocoMelon.
Continue toward your destination listening to your child’s piercing cries.
In 200 feet, check the mirror to ensure your child hasn’t escaped the car seat like a little Gen Alpha Houdini.
In half a mile, use the– It’s just the YouTube videos that are corroding kids’ brains. Right? RIGHT?!
Turn left and turn on CocoMelon.
For the next 4 miles, enjoy the sound of your silent child—and bona fide nursery rhyme bangers.
In one and a half miles, nod approvingly when Spotify switches it up to Sesame Street.
In 500 feet, realize you’ve aged into a demographic advertisers target to sell cleaning supplies, when you find yourself thinking: “Man, Elmo’s Song slaps!”
In 300 feet, widen your eyes at the sight of a yellow light that threatens to cease your vehicle’s motion and the fragile contentment of your pacified child.
In 50 feet, gun it toward the intersection… too little too late.
In 200 feet, fuck everyone driving behind you and decelerate so excruciatingly slowly so as to maintain even the slightest motion for as long as possible in order to keep your child from resuming their piercing cries, as you approach the now red light.
In 15 feet, accept the fact of what’s to come with the dignity of a medieval knight unwillingly brought to his execution ground.
In 5 feet, white knuckle your steering wheel… and come to a full and complete stop.
Continue on to your destination listening to your child’s piercing cries.
In 200 feet, take the ramp and take your child’s earmuffs from the diaper bag for your own hearing protection.
Merge onto the freeway looking like an airport technician behind the wheel.
In half a mile of stop-and-go traffic, ask yourself why you didn’t use fucking Waze.
In 600 feet, use your free hand to root around for a snack or something you absentmindedly left in the backseat, you fucking forgetful fuck.
In a quarter mile, dislocate your shoulder to try to feed your child a veggie straw.
In 500 feet, veer violently toward the shoulder to reinsert your dislocated shoulder.
In another half-mile of stop-and-go traffic, ask yourself why you didn’t use fucking Waze.
In 100 feet, beg your infant child to PLEASE stop their piercing cries, PLEASE.
In 20 feet, remember your child’s only spoken word is: “Poot.”
In 3 miles, remember that you were once the crying baby in the backseat.
In 50 feet, acknowledge that you are also crying.
For the next 2 miles, regret that your child must be subject to the confines of the car seat for one moment longer—and a host of indignities they did not choose, like a lifetime on this warming planet, which you are actively harming with your carbon-emitting car—and commit to ending their poor, piercing cries, whatever the obstacle.
In 200 feet, finger the switch on the back of your steering wheel to fire Mario Kart projectiles at traffic down the freeway.
In 50 feet, veer left to dodge a Cybertruck spun out of control by a Koopa Shell.
In a quarter mile, depress the button beside your trunk release to activate your vehicle’s Batmobile/Tumbler Mode.
For the next 6 miles, obliterate all that stands in your way.
In 300 feet, shout “STAY WITH ME!” during one of those interminable pauses between your child’s piercing cries.
In half a mile, take a call from your concerned spouse, who asks if that’s you on TV. There are helicopters and everything.
In 200 feet, close the sunroof shade for a little privacy from the local news team.
In 500 feet, tell your spouse everything is fine, and mumble something you heard Vin Diesel say about “family.”
In 400 feet, hit the thrusters to launch your vehicle off of the freeway.
In 15 feet, crash-land on a Cybertruck and tell your child: “I’M GETTING YOU TO GYMBOREE ON TIME.”
Continue to your destination down Fury Road.