Natural GPS vs TMI

When my beloved spouse and I first traveled together on our honeymoon, he quickly surmised that I was not a map reader. North, south, east west, I couldn’t give directions that way at that point. My directions were more like, “We turn left on Such and Such street.”

“When is such and such street?”

“It’s after this and that street and I think it’s on your left. You can’t miss it.”

“North or East?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are we on the map?”

I’d be silent for a moment, trying to ensure accuracy, but this would rattle him as he felt my lack of instant response indicated I didn’t know where we were. He’d reach over and amazingly touch the exact spot where we were on the map without taking his eyes off the road.

“If you knew where we were, why did you ask?”

“I’m verifying. You’re the navigator.” At that point, I volunteered to drive.

Since then, I have gotten better, but he’s also stopped asking me to read the maps.

For the record, he’s never been lost. I cannot say the same thing, even within the friendly confines of this county where I have lived the past 13 years. I cannot even say it is true for the past four months, but I blame pregnancy, not my innate navigational compass which seems permanently wired to “guess wrong.”

My husband’s natural GPS has been passed down to our posterity. Some of our children can always tell when I’ve made a wrong turn and will ask suspiciously, “Mom? Where are we going?” I’ve tried dodging that question, ”Don’t worry, I know where we are…” but they don’t buy it anymore. They know, if I suddenly stop at a gas station for a “Diet Coke” and fuel, that really, I’m getting directions.

Sometimes, they’ve even checked the gas gage to see if we “really” needed gasoline. Whenever they’ve seen a discrepancy between perceived need and actual stopping, Dad gets a full report. “I think Mommy got lost over near Quince Orchard when we were coming back from the Orthodontist.”

Now I believe in plausible deniability. It’s good for marriage. It’s good for the ego. It’s good for the children to not be able to entirely embarrass their mother.

My husband will give a raised eyebrow and look, but he too has mellowed over the years. Knowing that knowing too much might mean I ask him to do the scheduled errands out to softball practice and the orthodontist, he doesn't ask even when they tell. And since he doesn’t know where the practice field is, or which dentist takes care of our daughter’s braces, he’d have to put up with my directions.

“It’s on such and such street just past this and that. You can’t miss it.”

Communication and non communication, it's what makes a marriage work.

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I AM A GPS...

Now a days, every rental car has one of these Tom Toms or Guardians that is designed to eliminate the age eternal battle that goes on between the driver and the designated draftee navigator. With one of these babies on board, you can Tom Tom Cruise to your destination, and no wacky side trips to Oprah's couch are necessary.

Thanks to GPS's, these conversations are a thing of the past.

"Where are we going?"
"To your brother's house."

"Where do I turn?"
"You go North."

"No. Where do I turn."
"You don't turn for another forty minutes. Just go north."

"Where do I TURN?"
Sigh. "You turn right."

"Which exit?"

Getting out the map, the subbordinate counts the exits. "I think it's sixteen."

"You THINK? or you KNOW?" Takes map, in two seconds, "It's here." Points at map, is dead on, "Number 18. I thought so."


"If you knew..."

The conversation reads more like a defendant's interrogation in a bad law show than a dialogue between two people who would willingly consent to be in the same vehicle.


GPS's have helped lower the collective blood pressure of couples everywhere. Bliss is just a button push away. The disembodied voice supplies the information, no one gets mad and the machine never says, "I told you to turn left at the Exxon station exit but you..." A whole venue for passive aggression has been nearly universally eliminated from the emotional landscape of America. Dr. Phil has taken to trolling area hospitals for Brittany Spears melt downs, as the number of couples in marital trouble have dropped procipitously.

People listen to GPS's. The GPS's tell them where to go. The GPS's tell them what to do. The people do what the GPS says.


...I want to be a GPS.

Then I realized, for my family. I am the GPS or rather, the MPS. (Maternal Property Seeker).

Currently, I am the chief finder of all objects big and small, important and profound, paper and plastic. Mom is the great refuge for those unwilling to search or unable to find their important papers, toys, uniform pieces and necessary accessories.

Tom Tom, meet Mom Mom.

"Mom! Mom! I can't find my knitting!" Daughter is learning to sew in art class, currently making a hat or maybe a yellow tribble, she hasn't made up her mind.

"You left it in the TV room on the bookshelf near the top. Your library books on Copernicus were under it."

"Oh yeah."


"Mom! Mom! I can't find my silver shoes and I wanted to wear them to Christine's Princess Party this afternoon."

"I think I saw your younger sister wearing one of them in the study, so check under the blankets she left there as a tent, and the other one is in the far right pocket of the pool table, under the eight ball."

"Mom! Mom! I can't find my cell phone! I tried calling it but I put it on vibrate for Church this morning and..."

"Your phone is in our bathroom charging. You left it in my car when you brought in the doughnuts."


Mom-Mom can beat Tom-Tom most days. Most clients are satisfied with the speed and accuracy of information an MPS can provide. Testimonials include locating the Cub Scout manual and hat, the remaining box of diaper wipes, a set of car keys, two basketball uniforms, the science review sheet, socks, six shoes, a hair brush, nail clippers and a wallet all in one day.

Further investigation proves that MPS has only had one customer complaint.

Mom-Mom was completely ineffective when Sherry lost her purse.