When I was a kid, life in the car was a different story than it is today. We didn't have air bags, and we barely had seat belts. In fact, the only thing that was supposed to separate most of us from a trip through the windshield was our mother's forearm.

While I spent most of my time bouncing around on the black leather seats of my mother's puke- green Maverick or squirming in the middle console of my dad's Porsche two- seater, my kids have spent their lives more tightly confined in the back seat than space shuttle astronauts on lift- off.

I was so relieved when my youngest child graduated to a booster seat a couple of years ago because I spent more time removing, replacing, and re- adjusting car seats than I did actually driving. I venture to say that it was easier to strap in Dale Earnhardt Jr. before a race in Darlington than it was to get our own Junior strapped in for a trip to Publix.

Anyway, those days are long gone, and now we've reached a new threshold at the Maddock household. My oldest daughter has graduated to the front seat. She is big enough to assume the shotgun seat without making the car manufacturers lawsuit weary.

No longer are my three kids forced to crowd into the backseat of my automobile. Each has his or her own seat and personal space, which mostly gets rid of that caged animal effect. They're not crowded against each other anymore, which leads to less touching, arguing, and general mayhem. Still, I already find myself longing for the days when I had the front seat all to myself.

I can't underestimate the value the newfound elbow- room has added to the quality of our commutes, but having my oldest daughter in the front seat is proving challenging. First off, she hasn't gotten over the initial thrill just yet. She's been staring at the back of a seat and my head for 11 years. So moving to the front seat has been like sitting shotgun in the cockpit of a 747. Everyday, she finds a new bell or whistle to touch.

"What's this button do, Daddy? How about this one? And this one?"

Despite her overwhelming need to identify every single light, lever, or button, the distractive capabilities of this pre- teen are not really what's bothering me. It's the gradual but steady loss of power that's killing me. The one remaining kidless part of my life is no more. My last sanctuary has been invaded, and my refuge is gone.

Granted, it wasn't much of a refuge. There was no protection from noise, flying objects, or kicks to the back, but the space was mine. Well, not anymore. My oldest daughter has invaded my front seat quicker than Hitler took France, and she's brought Hannah Montana and the entire

High School Musical trilogy with her.

I am no longer a solitary, but happy chauffeur. I'm back in high school with the friend that never volunteered to drive, but was more than happy to switch the channel on my radio. Despite that, this promotion is far less troubling than the next one, when she kicks me out of the driver's seat.