Just the Facts, Ma’am. Just the facts.
We passed the permit driving test today. By “we” I mean the teenage man-child in our house. By “we” I mean it’s not just him learning the rules of the road and how to accelerate without whiplashing the passengers (yes, my new word) and how not to take a turn at warp speed…it’s the parents, too.
Truth be told, this kid will also have a smart-mouthed uncle, a take-no-sh!t aunt, a rule-bending grandpa, and a teacher grandma helping him, too. Hang on, buddy, hope we all get it right.
Tonight we worked the empty school parking lot. It was a getting-to-know you with the brake pedal and acceleration pedal and he did really well. Only once did my head accidentally go to and fro so I considered it a success. He is his father’s son and I trust both of them implicitly. The kid is a rule follower. He sees a sign for 30 mph speed limit and he’ll go 27. Okay, maybe 28 but he knows he’ll hear me bark if it gets any closer.
But Then There’s the Mom Side
Yeah, we’re cruisin’ right along with this whole parenting thing. I’m beyond the point where I truly question my abilities at being in charge of someone I created. Sure, there are a bazillion things I could have and should have done differently. I cried when I didn’t need to but something inside me pulled harshly on my heart strings. I laughed when it wasn’t time to laugh but I couldn’t stop. couldn’t breathe. was gonna wet myself. Ever have either of those moments?
I know offspring grow up – I’m proof of that – you’re proof of that – and I see everyone else doing it, too. But this is MY kid, MY baby I used to be able to hold in one arm and sing to him without judgment. Now he’s six feet tall, can rest his elbow on the top of my head comfortably, and does the eye roll when I belt out “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Listen. I get most of the words right.
So yeah, there’s a “we” in this whole learning to drive thing. “We” have to come to a complete stop 3 feet behind the stop sign again. “We” have to travel just below the speed limit. “We” have to verbalize every little thing we’re doing so other drivers in the car understand the why. “We” have to remember there’s someone observing and absorbing every last cussing spat sent to other drivers. “We” are learning.
Only 49 hours, 32 minutes left of my husband and I in the car with him behind the wheel.