My oldest son, Benjamin, was born with a death wish. A true adrenaline junkie. Even as a baby, the faster he went, the happier he was. For a while, it was cute—until it wasn’t.
He was seven the first time he introduced his need for speed to his siblings. His brother Rowan was severely disabled. At age two, the only way he could sit up and watch the circus around him was in a swing. He loved the movement. Ben, being Ben, figured, If this makes him happy, I’ll make it go faster so he’ll really like it.
I turned just in time to see him trying to take the swing apart while Rowan looked up at him fearlessly, still swaying. I dove over the counter to stop him. Ben blinked at me and said, in the most innocent child voice, “Seriously, Mom, I was just trying to make it go faster.”
As he got older, his obsession with speed got worse. And by worse, I mean downright dangerous. There was the video of him on his skateboard, his friend driving behind him, filming him flying down the steepest, curviest road in the county. Then the picture from another friend showing a speedometer at an absurd number. If he hadn’t been standing in front of me, I would’ve expected a call from the police.
Eventually, he came home driving a motorcycle—one affectionately known as a crotch rocket. I didn’t yell or tell him to return it like a normal mother. No, I went out and bought him a keychain that said, “Don’t fucking die.” He laughed. It matched my signature sendoff: “Drive fast, take chances, remember I love you.”
We lived in a rural area where houses were far apart and speed limits were more of a suggestion. Two cops in the whole town—one day, one night. Everyone drove fast. Ben just drove faster.
But the icing on the cake was when his obsession endangered his sister.
Avery was in one of her “I’m not in a good place” moods. Ben, in his infinite wisdom, decided he could fix it and took her for a ride—thankfully in a car. She admitted she wanted to die. Ben decided speed would cure that.
He took her to a back road bordering a massive farm, floored the gas, and went as fast as the car could handle. The road was only a couple miles long, but it was enough. Avery wet herself and clung to the seat, screaming, “STOP THE CAR!”
Ben looked at her and said, “Told you you didn’t really want to die.”
A cure? Absolutely not. Did it help? Not even close. To this day, she won’t let him drive her anywhere.
Still amazed he made it to adulthood.
K.
