Left-Hand Turns

Last week, I left Avery for the first time for a work trip. Every time I heard a kid crying, at the airport, on the street, my heart hurt.

On the return, the flight got in after 11 p.m.

My car was waiting in the lot. As I drove away from the airport, there came the place where I had to choose.

Right about fifteen miles would take me to home and bed, where I could get a good night’s sleep. I could wake up at my leisure, shower and get ready for work, pick Avery up from my dad’s and drop her at daycare on my way to the office.

Left about fifteen miles would take me to my dad’s, where Avery would be sleeping.

I’d either have to wake her up and take her all the way back in the opposite direction to home, where neither of us would get a good night’s sleep before we had to wake up and get ready for the day.

Or I could look at her sleeping safely at her grandparents’ house and then turn around and drive all the way back home myself only to come right back and get her in the morning.

Or I could sleep at my dad’s, drive home in the morning, get ready, then turn around and drive back into town for work.

The choice was so obvious. Not a single good reason to turn left.

But as I sat there at the stop sign, I realized there was not a chance I would be turning right.

About five minutes from my dad’s, I got a call from him on my cell phone, reassuring me that Avery was sleeping peacefully and urging me to go home and get some sleep. I sighed. I almost pulled over.

It made so much sense. It was better for everyone.

But instead of turning around, I heard myself saying, “Well I’m almost there now, I might as well come say hi.”

As if my dad wants visitors at midnight. He’s a night-owl yes, but…

And then something hit me. Maybe this is why the human race is so successful. Why we’re at the top of the food chain, our numbers increasing exponentially, threatening to occupy every inch of this planet.

Because so many moms always turn left.

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