“Maa, where’s my hoodie?! The one without holes?”

I was halfway out the door when my seventeen-year-old’s voice sliced through the hallway like a police siren. I froze, car keys dangling in my hand.

“Check the dryer!” I yelled back.

“It’s not there! You washed it, didn’t you? It smells like lavender. Ugh.”

Then my fourteen-year-old poked her head out. “Can you drop me at Anu’s? And don’t ask questions this time.”

I blinked at them. “No. I’m not going anywhere with either of you. I want silence, snacks, and a steering wheel. That’s it.”

Before protests could explode, I left.

The second I pulled out of the driveway, I exhaled like I’d been underwater for years. The highway stretched ahead—glorious, empty, and promising peace. I turned up the radio and let the wind carry away every “Maa, can I” hurled at me. I was a free woman—with a near-empty fuel tank and fully loaded resentment.

“Speed bump ahead,” the GPS chirped.

“Oh, dear,” I chuckled, “I live on speed bumps.”

Career, sentence, nap—every time I built momentum—a speed bump showed up.

By six kilometers, I was grinning. I’d outdrive teen drama, hormonal chaos, and whatever mysterious orange substance crusted the living room floor.

Then my phone buzzed.

Opal (14): Where’s my black eyeliner? The one that makes me look sad.

Tanya (17): Maa, the Wi-Fi is out. Did you take it with you?

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly missed the turn.

At a red light, a motorcycle revved next to me in a glittery helmet gave me a thumbs-up.

Was I cool? Or just visibly exhausted?

My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten a peaceful meal since 2014.

I pulled into a roadside restaurant that hadn’t been updated since the '90s. Perfect.

I ordered pakauri and chai. Mid-sip, another buzz.

Tanya: Wi-Fi is back. Never mind. But Opal says you left her emotionally unsupported.

A groan escaped me. The couple next to me gave a sympathetic look. Or maybe they liked my “Grunt Translator” T-shirt.

I opened Facebook and saw a reel of a mother doing pottery in Italy, laughing in slow motion. I laughed too—one of those slightly unstable, teetering laughs. Because her highway looked freshly paved. Mine? Under construction. With cows, stray, rabid dogs. And potholes.

I typed a response to my girls: I’m on my way. Try not to emotionally combust.

Then my phone buzzed again—this time from the home security app. The camera showed the girls arguing on the porch. Tanya had locked Opal out. She was holding a spatula like a weapon.

I sighed, stuffed a handful of pakauris in my mouth, and started the car.

As I merged back onto the highway, I smiled.

The road was still full of bumps—but at least I’d learned to swerve, snack, and scream internally with style.

“Home,” I said to the GPS. “Fastest route.” 

It re-calculated.

And I drove on the highway—bracing for the next bump, armed with chai and sarcasm.

*****

Author’s Note:
If you thought this was just a funny story about a chaotic drive, look again—it’s a love letter to the beautiful mess called motherhood. The highway may be meant for smooth sailing, but mine comes with invisible speed bumps—surprises, detours, and the occasional spatula duel—and somehow, with snacks and sarcasm, I still keep going.