On Friday, my five-year-old had an appointment at the children’s hospital. His orthopedist tends to run behind, so I cleared our schedule for the whole morning. We have a few rituals that come with going to the orthopedist: the kids always want a donut and a can of grape juice from the hospital cafeteria, and they always beg me to take a ride on the train, and I always tell them no. This week, since I knew it would be fruitless to try to rush back for preschool and playgroup, I asked the kids if they wanted to take the train to the doctor.

It takes us about 15 minutes to drive to the hospital. When I drive, I know that I should leave the house at 9:15 for a 9:45 appointment, which gives me plenty of time to grumble at the traffic, park the van and get the kids up to the fourth floor. To take the train, we left the house at 8:25. The hospital is seven miles north of my house. To get to the train, we had to drive seven miles west, then take the train seven miles north and seven miles east. Conservators of  natural resources we were not. On the platform, I spent five minutes trying to figure out how to use the ticket machine, nervous because I had barely enough cash to buy the tickets (“credit card reader coming soon” doesn’t help much when you only have four bucks in your pocket). Then I almost herded my little group onto the wrong train. Once we got on the right train, it was jammed with commuters. My three-year-old sat, the five-year-old and I stood nearby. When I drive my car, I strap the kids into their car seats and adjust the heat, the mirrors and even the music to my liking.

When we take the van, it’s just us. There are no homeless men muttering to themselves, no young moms talking to their new-found friends about the tie they share– their husbands are both in prison, no college students engaged in very public displays of affection. I never feel like I should zip up the purse sitting at my feet and clutch it on my lap, never worry about the germs we’re getting exposed to as our hands grip the poles.

I can’t control how quickly the doctor gets through her patients, but when I drive, it really doesn’t matter, my van is waiting for me in the parking lot whenever we finish. With trains coming only every 30 minutes, I tapped my foot impatiently as I watched two successive trains leave while we sat in the exam room. She came into the room just as we watched a train pull out, and after she spent two minutes with us, we were back in the hall of the hospital, with 28 minutes to fill before the next departure.

If we’d taken the van,  the trip would have taken a lot less time and cost us less money. By the time we got home, I was exhausted, and rattled. It dawned on me how sheltered I’d become if some homeless guys, a short wait, and a struggle with a machine could throw me. It wasn’t so long ago that I was a college student living in London and relying on the train, the tube and the bus system for all of my transportation.  These days, I think I’m an adult and fully in control of my surroundings, but something as simple as a train ride shows me that my arena of control is pretty small. And I’m pretty lucky to have my minivan. Most of the people on the train on Friday morning weren’t there for their kids’ recreational experience– they were there because it was the best way for them to get from one place to another.

As for the kids, they thought it was great. They’ve already asked if we can take the train the next time we go to the doctor.

Related posts:

1. ‘Tis the Season (Cold & Flu Season)
2. Tethered
3. Living with Dying, Part II