Before Tommy, I gritted my teeth and dealt with it. But my son was a year old now, and they still had the audacity to squeeze in.
I'd told Lambert countless times to suggest Bernice take the train. It was faster. Safer.
But every single time, they either "couldn't get tickets" or "missed the train," and somehow the solution was always the same: cram into our car.
Bernice hurried over, already complaining. "Astrid Sullivan, you guys are so slow. I've been standing here forever. My feet are killing me."
She rapped on the window. "Open up, Lambert. Let us in."
I swallowed my anger and kept my voice level. "Bernice, there's no room. At most we can fit one adult and one child. Anything more and we're breaking the law."
Bernice waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, please. The toll booths are all automated now. Tommy's tiny. Nobody's going to check."
In her mind, my one-year-old son was the excess passenger.
"Just take Tommy's car seat out. You hold him in the front. Morton, Daisy, and I will squeeze into the back. It'll be fine."
I shut that down immediately. "Absolutely not. Tommy is one year old. He needs that safety seat. It's the only thing protecting him in a crash. It stays."