Toddler Traffic Jam Blues

As with everybody, over the years, my worries and anxieties have changed. I’ve always had a reputation to be calm, cool, and collected among my peers, but it’s natural to have anxieties. Some pass quickly. Some make you want to go to an all-you-can-eat Zoloft buffet.

In my teens, my biggest anxiety was just trying to fit in during awkward years. As I moved on to my twenties, there were worries about my career and future. As I rolled into my thirties, I met my wife, Megan, and my anxieties switched to being a good husband and providing for her and my future family.

I didn’t start having children until I turned 40 (that alone brings a whole new set of OMGs), so now my daily thoughts are mostly about how to keep two toddlers alive. These are all normal, of course, but it’s the irrational worries that I don’t want to pass down to my kids. You know, like “Did I bring a jacket in case it’s cold later?” or “What will my hair look like when my wife is done cutting it?” (Oh, you better believe there will be a future article on that topic.)

No, that’s not Bonnie & Clyde … just the Rathz kids getting ready to hit the road for some underage driving. (Photo provided by Tim Rathz)

One of those irrational anxieties for me presents itself in the form of heavy traffic and parking. Like many people, I love special events, concerts, gatherings, sporting events, etc. However, I am almost never able to truly enjoy anything until my car is parked, my ticket is scanned, and my butt is in my seat, especially when large crowds are involved. By now Megan knows to just leave me be as we approach our designated venue. I think she can hear my heart palpitating, see my pearl white knuckles on the steering wheel, feel my steely-eyed stare out the front windshield, or perhaps it’s the “homina homina homina” she can hear repeating in my head.

An example of one of these unreasonable worry extravaganzas happened this past May. I took a Friday off work and was going to take my four-year-old daughter, Mary, to an Indy 500 practice. It would be her first time there when the cars were on the track. I am a huge IndyCar fan, and I was elated to share this experience with my little girl. She was even bragging how it was a “daddy and me day.” The morning finally came, and we packed a cooler with sandwiches and snacks. This was also the first time I had ever packed a hairbrush and a scrunchie in my track backpack, but that’s beside the point. We were off.

Then it hit me … I had spent so much time this week making sure I had everything packed correctly, getting the tickets purchased, and checking the weather forecast, that I didn’t even think about the parking situation.

I hopped on my phone and pulled up the Indianapolis Motor Speedway app and checked out the parking tab. I read it for 30 seconds, considered myself an expert and moved on. At this point I was thinking, “We should be fine!” Sure, we were leaving later than I wanted, but having a toddler means it takes a minimum of four hours to get out the door. Besides, it’s a practice on a weekday, so there shouldn’t be that big of a crowd anyway. Right?

We approached the mecca of motorcars via 16th Street and suddenly there was a sea of stopped traffic in the right lane. This was an intensely long line turning into the track. Luckily, I had a PhD in Speedway parking thanks to that app, and I already knew I was going to go past that entrance to a different lot. I smiled wide and waved to all the poor suckers sitting in that line as I scuttled past them and on to the smart-person-lot. I turned the corner in my moment of glory and behold … an even BIGGER line that I was now stuck in.

At this point I felt sweat bead up on my forehead. I decided the calm route was the way to go, so I waited patiently. Twenty minutes later we had barely moved, and I felt my breathing quicken and my eyes dilate. Now I’d really done it. We are going to sit here for hours, maybe even days. Did I pack enough water? Had I ruined my daughter’s childhood?

Out of nowhere, one of the residents of the street I was imprisoned on came out and held up a sign for paid parking on her lawn. I hesitated because I hate paying more money than I had planned. I had a decision to make. I was in a real pickle. Okay, I’m doing this. I drove onto her grass, paid my fee and turned off the engine. We made it!

Okay, but now we have a long way to walk. Who cares? After all, she’s four years old now. She can take it. I grabbed my backpack, cooler, and Mary’s hand and off we went towards the city-sized raceway. A couple blocks later I realized that if I just would have waited about five more minutes, I would have easily made it into the lot and been a lot closer to the track. Ugh.

Did all this matter? No. At the end of the day Mary had a blast and I was Dad of the Year.

The moral of the story is … you can never be too neurotic when it comes to having a great day with your loved ones. Now where’s that Zoloft?!

Tim Rathz can be reached at 40somethinginfishers@gmail.com. Follow on Facebook or Instagram.