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When trying to impress upon your kids the many dangers—and potentially bad choices—they will face as teenagers, having a living, breathing parent in a wheelchair can be mighty handy. Both Josh and Ben know the general circumstances surrounding my accident, in as much I wasn’t wearing a seat belt. It’s a great tool getting Ben to wear his own seat belt, now that he’s out of his booster seat. At first all I had to do was make comments like “look, I’ve already flown through the front windshield of a car, and trust me – it never ends well.” For Josh it’s a no-brainer, since he definitely has the strongest sense of self-preservation of the two. When it comes to the big safety issues, he’s always willing to comply. Ben, on the other hand, feels he has the right to litigate, which will be a tremendous asset in a few years when he’s captain of his high school debate team, and even more so someday when he’s a trial lawyer, god willing. But at age seven, his entitlement just irritates his weary parents.

For example:

“Ben, put on your seat belt.”

“But you haven’t pulled out of the driveway yet.”

“Ben, don’t argue – put on your belt. It’s a state law.”

“It’s only when you’re on the road, and you’re not on the road yet.”

“Ben, put on the damn belt!”

“Why? We’re not on the road yet!”

What I’m really supposed to do here, according to any number of parenting tomes, is not explain myself further. Make the rule absolute. Lay out the consequences. But of course I can’t resist, because a seven year old has just drawn me into an argument, and I am determined not to let him win.

“Ben, I am at the edge of the driveway ready to pull out. Any second now, once these cars pass. You have to put on your belt now, or I can’t pull out!”

“I’ll put in on when you start to pull out.”

“Okay, see that car coming from the left, Oops, he’s just veered to the right and is heading right for us. He’s out of control and he’s going to slam right into us. I can’t move in time. Oh gosh there goes Ben – he’s flown out the other side of the car. Oh poor Ben – looks like he didn’t make it. If only he’d been wearing his seat belt, it’d be his high score on Madden NFL on his Game Boy DS, and not mine.”

“Well isn’t that my choice?”

Ben’s been identified, even at this early age, for his school’s Talented and Gifted Program, an astounding achievement for him and an unending source of pride for me, even though I can’t actually take any genetic credit. But his burgeoning intellect has the annoying side-effect of forcing us parents to cross our ‘t’s and dot our ‘i’s whenever we lock horns with him.

“Well I -”

“I am going to call my friend on the police force and ask him.” There, that should do it. His hesitation tells me he probably made it up, although now I still need to double check – he will follow up on it. “Ben, is it on? I didn’t hear the click –“

“Yes” he says under his breath.

“ – because if I pull out of here and it’s not on your Game Boy is history – “

“Ye -es!” he answers more loudly.

My knuckles are white from gripping the wheel with all my might during this whole ordeal. If I were not sitting behind the wheel of my car I would be undoubtedly spinning in place in my wheelchair, Exorcist-like.

Talking with Ben one-on-one is actually refreshing, for it is more of a two way discussion when there is no conflict between parent and child, and it’s during these discourses that Ben’s intelligence really shines through. He and Josh are exceptionally articulate; I’m fairly sure I wasn’t expending any intellect at his age on these huge life lessons that Ben seems determined to take on. Josh and Ben already have figured out that I’m no match physically – once they figure out how much smarter they are than me, I’m really done.

But for now I think I can keep up the pretense a little longer, at least until they need help with square roots or trigonometry homework.

As I glance back in the rear view mirror, I can see the whites of Ben’s upturned, rolling eyes. Still, I like to hope that some of this is seeping in through some subconscious portal somewhere. We drive on in silence. One the way home, as I’m pulling into the driveway, Ben says, “Geoff?”

“Yes?”

“It’s your fault that you’re in a wheelchair.”

For a moment I’m speechless. Finally I manage to cough out a response “Well, you know accidents happen, and sometimes they happen for no rhyme or reason…” Listen to me – like a broken record. But inside what I really want to do is grab him by the scruff of the neck and scream My fault? How dare you!

“But you got into that car without putting your seatbelt on. That was pretty stupid.” Ben’s voice is as matter-of-fact as if he were reading off of a flash card.

I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard that my palms are burning. Stupid? I’ll give you stupid, you little – But I’m still miraculously maintaining some semblance of composure “Well, you know we didn’t have a seat belt law back then - ” I trail off, realizing how idiotic that sounds to a kid who has grown up knowing nothing but seatbelts.

…and I suppose you’ll tell him too what the cops had said, about the how entire roof of the car had caved in and if a seat belt had kept you in place, you probably wouldn’t have broken your back, but then again you might not have a head, either. Or how you’d driven with Chris a hundred times, and how you were only a couple miles from your house, and how he really seemed just fine to drive, and how were you supposed to know? Why not throw in the fact that you were riding in what was judged to be one of the most unsafe cars on the road at that time? Go ahead - tell him who Ralph Nader is. That way he can start using the same excuses that have gotten you by all these years. You’re not really pissed because of Ben’s callousness, are you? You’re not envisioning ringing his neck right now because he’s a seven year old who calls you stupid to your face. No - you’re about to drive the car through the closed garage door right now with rage because he’s absolutely right. You know it, just as you’ve known all these years; every time you spit about this injustice and that injustice and ‘why me?’ and ‘why is my life so unfair?’ – you know, deep down, that this really is your fault, that you could have done a hundred things to prevent this, starting with simply not going out drinking illegally at age nineteen. Tell him also how you’ve never been able to forgive Chris for crashing the car, too. In fact you moved away and never spoke again since that night…

I’m not a role model; not even close. I’m even contemptuous – a poster child for not wearing your seatbelt. How dare I demand reverence and, of all things, respect when Ben, even at age seven, can see it this clearly: It’s Geoff’s own fault that he’s in a wheelchair.

Then it dawns on me, like a bright light switching on in the darkness of my garage bay. He has finally learned. They may not look up to me, but perhaps years down the road from now, when they have a few seconds to decide whether or not they’re getting in that car driven by a friend whose been drinking, they’ll think of me, that pathetic guy in the wheelchair, spinning around in circles, gritting his teeth, clenching his fists and making weird faces, and maybe the desire not to be like me is exactly what it will take to save their precious lives.

All things considered, that’s okay.

(This is an excerpt from "They Call Me Wheels", a memoir by Geoffrey E. Matesky, NOW AVAILABLE from iUniverse, Amazon.com, & Barnes & Noble (bn.com). If you are a bookseller and wish to obtain copies, please contact the sales department of my publisher, iUniverse.com for more details.)