“I really want to ride shotgun!” Chloe begged yesterday.  I tried to find a law that prohibits kids from riding in the front passenger seat, but there isn’t one (unless you’re under 8 years old).  The guides recommend no younger than 12, but it’s only a recommendation.  That was enough for Chloe to beg us some more.

Papa told her that the front seat is known as “place du mort” or the “seat of the dead” in French.  Rather than having the intended effect of scaring Chloe off, that little factoid thrilled her even more.

Grammy is visiting my brother in Austin this week, so I left work early to pick the girls up from the bus stop.  What was the first thing Chloe asked as we started to walk toward the red putt-putt car?  “Mom, can I ride shotgun?”

What could I say?  The stop is literally 1/4 mile down the street from our house.  I acquiesced.  Chloe was gleeful.  She was proud.  If she were a bird she would have been primping her feathers.  She strapped herself in, and even Sophie was excited for her big sister.  She looked really small in that front seat, but she didn’t care one iota.

I decided to live a little.  To let Chloe enjoy her milestone.  And instead of driving directly to the house, we drove around the block.   Our little detour added a whopping two minutes to our trip, but that was enough. Chloe was ecstatic.  She waved at strangers.  My daughter never waves at strangers.  It was truly a sight to behold.

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