Car research begins at home

Jun 21, 2007

Wheels columnist

But that’s when I pore over reviews, scan all the ads and make phone calls to ask more questions. It recently occurred to me that I’d been overlooking a valuable source of information right under my nose: I have two sons, and it turns out they’ve been providing everything I really needed to know about cars, for free.

By the time my oldest son, Marc, turned 1, I had learned that sports cars and child seats do not go together. I learned that leaning into the back seat of a two-door, low-slung car is not only difficult; it’s downright unattractive from several angles.

When he was 2, I learned that even when you think you’ve recovered all the fishy crackers and mini bagels that have been stuffed behind the seat, there will always be something you can’t find. Except with your nose.

When Jackson, now 12, was 3, I became aware that with enough practice, a sippy cup can absolutely be pitched out of that half-down child-proof childproof window. A friend’s four-year-old taught me that a Hot Wheels car is just sharp enough to carve something into the trunk of Daddy’s car. And you can’t blame another kid when it’s your distinctive nickname etched in the paint.

If you get a scooter for your fifth birthday, it’s best not to leave it right under the back tire.

When a boy is 6, and his horrible brother is 9, the glovebox is indeed a great hiding spot for the Kit Kat you don’t want to share. But January would be better than July, and forgetting about it is never a good thing.

At 7, Marc taught me about tires. No matter how far from home you are when you hit a squirrel, if you look very carefully, you can probably find some of it still there. Especially if you get the flashlight from the kitchen, and that little screwdriver from Mommy’s purse that she uses to fix her sunglasses.

While I admit it was a dare, Jackson at 8 taught me opening the window in the car wash isn’t just like a fun shower. By age 9, both boys were requesting tinted windows so nobody could see me kissing them goodbye when they got out.

I had to gently explain to Marc at 10 that just because the speedometer goes up that high, it doesn’t mean we’re supposed to go that fast. And it does not make me a wussy because I “won’t even try.”

If you buy an 11-year-old a car magazine, they will help with a great deal of research, and then patiently explain why a Ferrari would actually be an investment. A van full of 12- and 13-year-olds after hockey practice will teach you the value of open windows in the winter, regardless of the cold.

By the time Marc was 14, I realized how fatally flawed the little spare-change area of most vehicles is, due to its lack of a false bottom. I thought “spare” meant “mine.” I have since learned it means “just enough for a Coke.”

Nobody knows more about auto insurance costs than the parent of a 15-1/2-year-old boy.

I enjoy the Wheels section, seeing cars I may never own and hearing of problems I hope I never have. But I will stop underestimating the fountain of information literally under my own nose.