I'm pretty sure by now that my car and I are in a committed relationship. We spend hours together every day, know every shortcut in the area, and are practically always on the move, but unfortunately, it's not romantic at all.

Because with two teenagers, my everyday life basically consists only of timetables, spontaneous changes of plan, and messages that basically flash up the moment you've just switched off the engine.

"Mom, can you give me a quick ride?"

This little word "short" is particularly fascinating. Sometimes it really does mean just five minutes, but often it also includes half an hour's drive, a pit stop at the gas station, and a completely spontaneous detour; I simply never know beforehand.

Things get even more interesting when specific times are agreed upon. "I'll be ready at six," they say. Six, not a little after, not half past six, and certainly not sometime between dinner and bedtime. As a mom, though, you quickly learn to view such statements as mere guidelines. And so, I sit in the car, waiting and observing life in the parking lot. I see the other parents, also waiting patiently in their cars, exchange knowing nods and smiles, and don't have to say a word. You just recognize each other: the silent companions of taxi moms. We could probably start our own association by now.

What's particularly impressive, by the way, is teenagers' ability to change their location in a fraction of a second. I'm just heading towards the agreed meeting point when the message pops up: "We're somewhere else." Of course you are, why should anything ever go according to plan?

Sometimes I wonder how many kilometers I've driven in recent years just for friends, birthdays, shopping trips, or school events. I could probably finance several vacations with that amount by now. Or at least a very decent gas card for the next few years.

And yet there are these moments that I secretly love: conversations in the car.

Those random five or ten minutes when, in the passenger seat, someone suddenly starts talking about what's really important. Stories about friends, teachers, big dreams, small worries, or the latest drama, casually, without any prompting, just out of the blue.

Perhaps that's why my car has long since become more than just a means of transportation. It's a meeting room, a sounding board, a laughter center, and sometimes even an impromptu snack bar. The crumbs under the seats certainly provide ample evidence of that. And even though I occasionally feel like a full-time chauffeur, I know perfectly well that this time will eventually end. Then they'll drive themselves and won't need me for every trip anymore.

I'll probably be sitting on the sofa one Sunday, looking at my silent phone and thinking: Nobody has asked me today if I can drive for a bit.

And I'll probably even miss this wonderful chaos a little bit.