I suppose it's all my fault.

It started out harmless enough: as we'd wait for the stoplight to change, we'd say, "Green means go! Red means stop! Yellow means sllllooooooowwwww dowwwwwwnnnnnnnn!"

Little did I know that I was creating two backseat drivers in carseats.

A few months ago I took a right on red. "Mom..." I heard from the back. "Yeah?" I asked. "You just turned and the light was red." I caught his eye in the rear view mirror. He was not amused. "Oh no, honey. That's ok to do." I never thought that I'd have to give a lesson on driving to my 1st grader, but then again, there are a lot of things I never thought I'd have to do as a mom. He seemed pacified, although still a bit dubious at my explanation, as if maybe this was just some big story that I was inventing because after all, I was the one that had taught him 'Red means stop!'

A few days later, it happened again. "MOM!" "What??" I shriek, convinced that a projectile has come crashing through the back window and skewered my child, based solely on the sheer terror in his voice. "YOU TURNED AND IT WAS RED!" My pulse returning to normal, I managed to calmly reiterate the 'Right on red' rule. He also calmed down and seemed to accept my explanation a little easier this time.

The next week I turned left on a green arrow. From the back, a familiar, "Mooommm..." "Yes?" "You said that you could turn right on red, but you turned left that time and it was still red." "Didn't you see the green arrow? If you are turning left, sometimes we can make our turn even though the people going straight are still stopped." His mouth was set in a grim line, but he nodded.

"Mom?" "What, hon?" "How do you know how fast you can drive?" Thus the speed limit saga began. "See those signs with numbers on them? They tell you how fast you can go."

"Thirty-five, Mom. It says thirty-five." "Thanks." "Are you going thirty-five?" I glance down at my speedometer hovering just over 40. Moment of truth. I lick my lips. "Nope - but now that I know that it's just 35, that's how fast I'll go."

"Fifty-five, Mom." "Twenty, Mom. I just saw twenty." "Mom, did you see that? It said forty-five now. You can go forty-five." The 3 year old has begun to chime in too: "How fast, Mom, how fast?" My thoughts while driving now involve how hard it would be to make my back windows completely opaque and just how insane that would sound to explain to the car guy.

Next up, we bring the police into the mix. "Mom, what happens if you go faster than you're supposed to?" "The police will give you a ticket." I watch him in the rear view mirror as he digests this morsel. Lip quivering, he asks in a small voice, "Will we go to jail?" I assure him that we will absolutely not go to jail over a speeding ticket. It's only after I clarify that the driver is the only one who will be in trouble that he perks up.

Perhaps the most insulting query comes from the mouth of my 3 year old as we are en route to our weekly errands, a routine trip that I've driven for years now: "This is the wrong way!" I bite my tongue and sweetly repond, "Trust me; it's the right way" to which he reponds even more sweetly, "Are you sure?"

But I'll have the last laugh. The countdown has begun: only ten years until it's their turn in the drivers seat....