A Turn of the Wheel

Teaching your sixteen year old child to drive is an enlightening and life-altering event. I had the honor of teaching both of our sons to drive, because, quite simply, my husband didn’t have the guts. Let me rectify that statement. He did take the eldest out driving once. As I heard from my son George later, my husband had his left hand on the emergency brake and his right hand clutched on the door handle during the entire trip. He sucked in so much air during the ride that he had hiccups for two hours afterwards. It took a little longer for the nausea to disappear.

My husband told me later that the right side of his face was scraped by tree bark and speed limit signs, because George hadn’t developed that all-important distance judgment yet. As a result, George tended to drive mere millimeters away from the curb. That was the end of the Dad-and-Son Quality Time in the Car.

The second after George got his learner’s permit, he wanted to drive to a friend’s house in a neighboring town. So we hopped into our Dodge minivan, George in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger seat, and Donnie, who was 11 years old at the time, in the very back seat. I felt calm and proud. I was not nervous at all. After all, I reasoned, George is an athlete. His instincts are good and his reaction time on the soccer field is excellent. He has shown maturity and good judgment in the past. Why should driving be any different? Piece of cake. I entertained thoughts of all the leisure time I would have after he got his license. He could drive Donnie to soccer practice, pick him up at his friend’s house, and run errands for me. This will be great.

The drive down the main road in our town wasn’t too bad. Going down another road to the highway, however, was a tad frightening. When did this road shrink? Why hadn’t I noticed how narrow this road is? When we got onto 95, my heartbeat accelerated to three times its normal speed. It resembled a parking lot! Cars were winging by in all three lanes, at high speed, with no consideration whatsoever for us. My shoulders crept up to my earlobes and I clutched the door strap a little tighter, thinking, “George is only a baby, scarcely out of diapers! How can he be expected to operate a motor vehicle? What is wrong with this country?” I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Donnie sitting motionless on the back bench of the van, feet barely touching the floor, hands clutching the upholstered sea, sweat beaded on his upper lip. The child was paralyzed by fear.

We made it to the friend’s house, but only after I sweated off about 5 pounds, dug red half-moons into my palms, and bit my lips dry. I had a stiff neck for four days afterwards. Donnie refused to get in a car with George for approximately six months. George actually did fine behind the wheel. It was Donnie and I who didn’t do so well.

He finally got his license, which is a whole other story in itself. We, he and I, were at the DMV from 8:30 AM to 4:45 PM on the day of his road test. We were there longer than the employees. It was not the fault of the DMV; it was our fault. But that’s a tale for another day.

Then, before we knew it, Donnie turned sixteen. Time for another learner’s permit. My husband again refused to drive with Donnie, saying that he was still picking splinters out of his right cheek from four and a half years ago. So it fell to Mother to man it up and put on her teacher’s hat once again. This child was very different from the elder son. This one was supremely confident, and he truly believed that he knew everything there was to know about driving. Donnie actually did okay behind the wheel but that confidence, bordering on cocky, was a little scary at times.

I am ashamed to say that, while he was driving down a street near the city, I actually grabbed the wheel; I was convinced he was going to sideswipe every car that was parked on the side of the road. Apparently his friend Adam, cowering in the back seat, agreed with me, as evidenced by his unholy and piercing shout of terror. This almost caused an accident, but I digress. Donnie took his road test while sick with a fever of 102 and an infected throat. He passed, and wonder of wonders! We made it out of the DMV this time in less than three hours.

So George has been driving for 10 years and Donnie has had his license for a little over five years. I have been driving for 34 years. Yes, 34. I find it ironic that now, on the rare occasion when my sons drive with me, they suck wind, clutch the door straps, and say things like, ‘You SEE that Toyota pulling out, right?” or “Aren’t you a little close to the curb, Mom?”

Whoever said revenge is sweet obviously taught teenagers to drive at some point in his/her life.