On my most recent trip to Brooklyn to visit my daughter and son-in-law, I realized I didn’t have my EZ-Pass with me. I wouldn’t have thought that driving without an EZ pass could be so absurdly challenging, but somehow, keeping an eye out for toll booths and navigating my way was more difficult than I thought. Normally, a family member or a stranger who posted for a ride would help me with this new divided attention task, but alas, this time I was driving solo.

On the plus side, even though I was traveling alone, I was able to establish a better relationship with my GPS lady. She not only kept me apprised of the speed traps along the way but also offered her reassurances when traffic slowed down to a crawl by telling me that we were “still on the fastest route.” I’m not really sure how I would’ve managed to get off the highway while surrounded by cars on every side if I hadn’t been on the fastest route, but luckily in the cases where I did hit traffic, it seems that going five mph was as good as it was going to get.

With the GPS lady by my side, the main thing my attention was focused on were the police cars lurking along the side of the highway. Fortunately, I have some experience in this matter since I take the 695 to work every day. Due to the construction that has finally sprung to life after sitting dormant for close to a year, speed zones and speed traps have been set up. The speed traps consist of strategically placed police cars on each side of the inner and outer loop. Fortunately for those of us who are inclined to avoid getting a speeding ticket, the large police SUVs that they’ve chosen to mount the speed cameras on are “hidden” behind a port-a-potty. I kid you not. It’s kind of like playing hide-and-seek with a hippopotamus who’s hiding behind a flagpole. I have yet to receive a speeding ticket.

We often expect our children and grandchildren to inherit our qualities, whether they want to or not. We unconsciously observe and compare them to ourselves to the point that when we see a glaring inconsistency, we start to ponder the age-old question of nature versus nurture. This question hit me squarely in the face when I saw my granddaughter walking around with a sprinkle cookie in one hand and a piece of broccoli in the other. The even more confusing part was that she was munching on each item with an equal amount of enthusiasm. Although you wouldn’t know it, this is contra-indicated for my side of the family.

I’m not usually one to wax poetic about the days of yore, but when I was a kid life was simpler. In the summertime, instead of carrying around enormous water bottles, we played in the backyard and drank from the garden hose. In the wintertime, instead of going to an Airbnb (which didn’t even exist) in Florida, we built snowmen and went sledding in the park. Food was also simpler. We drank water, soda, iced tea, or Kool-Aid, none of which exceeded three syllables, and we could always pronounce the ingredients in our food.

I was recently at a Shabbos table where the age-old question of “what kind of work do you do?” came up. I can usually understand the answers to these questions, especially when they have to do with professions with which I have some familiarity. Unfortunately, the majority of the people at this Shabbos table worked in computers. Not having any idea of what they were talking about, I asked a few questions. Unfortunately, even after I asked for clarification, I still had no idea what was going on. Not one to shirk my responsibility to broaden my horizons, I decided I would hop on the computer after Shabbos and google the daylights out of the terms they used. Unfortunately, the only one I could remember was “coding.” I figured that was a good start.

Many years ago, on a family trip to Boston, we drove around a historic area that was lined with small brick buildings. They were reminiscent of the pictures one sees in history books. As we passed by Boston Harbor, my children started to exclaim how they remembered learning about the Boston Tea Party in elementary school. It brought back fond memories of the Boston Tea Party that their teacher made since, in addition to the tea, they also had cookies and cakes. This explained to me why the event was memorable, however, as the conversation ensued, it became clear that there was a gross misperception on their part.

My first inkling that my daughter knew how to count was when she was about 20 months old. Most mothers would be impressed by their child’s intellectual prowess. I, however, was shaken to the core. Let me explain: My daughter, who was dressed in an adorable pink dress with a matching bow in her hair, was standing on the couch snuggling up next to me. We were reading a book, or at least, I was reading a book, when, all of a sudden, she yelled, “1-2-3.” The next thing I knew, she rushed to the edge of the couch and tried to leap off. The book went flying into the air as I lurched forward to grab her a moment before she tumbled face forward onto the floor. To this day, I have no idea what precipitated her desire to leap tall couches in a single bound. What I do know is that, thanks to her proficiency with numbers, I was able to save her from physical harm.