Driving . . . Me Mad!

The Valdez Boy is legal now.  To drive, that is.  He aced the test route and impressed the woman with the dreaded checklist.  Evidently, he possesses mad skills.  All of my children are now licensed to operate a motor vehicle on public roadways.  Yet another milestone in the life of a parent.  Yet another worry pulled out from under the pillow (Jimmy's grandma used to say that when the kids are little, all of a mother's worries are beneath her pillow) and thrust into the stark light of day.  A dangling baby tooth yanked loose to free the adult molar fighting to emerge.

Rather Toothsome!

Right about now, I'd rather play tooth fairy again.  Though at the going rate, the GROWING rate, of home tooth extraction and monetary remuneration, maybe I'd be smarter to surrender and pay the auto insurance.  (To all you parents who might feel the compunction to read this aloud to your young children: plug their ears if they believe! Otherwise, steel yourself for the devastation sure to follow the complete ripping away of the curtain between childhood fantasy and  big people reality.  Don't fool yourselves into thinking they actually realize the difference.  Have I not told you the story of how I revealed the true identity of Mr. Santa Claus to Sarah and Zachary many years back?   It was the crumbling of their young chins and quivering bow lips that clued me in.  "Ohhh, they actually thought the big guy in the red suit really delivered those presents marked FROM SANTA!"  The wailing lasted long into the afternoon.  The disapproval from my husband lasted long into the night.  My personal dismay over the entire affair still lingers to this day.  One mustn't assume  -- that whole "ass out of me and you" adage -- that because one intuited at a tender age that Santa and his pals, the Easter Bunny, Cupid, etc. were merely delightful figments of wonderful imagination, that everybody else inherently gets this.  And it matters little if they share your genetic material.)

Excuse me a moment while I retrieve my potted fern from Hank the Wonder Pup's jaws of plant-death.  This is the fourth in need of rescue just this week!

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I'm back.  Flustered.  Warm.  And rather ticked.  The danged dog would NOT listen to my stern commands.  When I finally grabbed his collar and led him back inside to his kennel for a time-out session, the fern was upended and my right shoe had collected poopie goo.  Grrrr!

Where was I?  Oh, the whole driving thing.  The girls were less pushy when it came to their licenses.  To be fair, the eldest was forced to wait until she graduated because we felt she simply wasn't ready due to extenuating circumstances.  She was quick to make up for lost time!  Number two in the line-up missed her written permit test by one or two answers -- test-taking anxiety at the root -- and chose to wait a full year before braving the waters again.  She passed and went on to lead a rich driving life running meaningful errands for her mother.

The boy, however, entertained dreams of driving even before he reached his fifteenth birthday.  Though I felt he did not give the manual the attention it deserved beforehand, the kid passed his test with a rainbow of flying colors and spent the next year racking up various and sundry hours behind the old wheel.  Fair weather and stormy weather.  Daylight and night.  Assorted vehicles.  Mom and dad alternating at shotgun.  And not once did he lose sight of the horizon upon which the silvery highway spread out before him: the holy grail of the hot-blooded American teenage boy.  Oil replacing blood.  Gasoline pumping where oxygen once circulated.

As THE day drew closer, the boy started up a chatter concerning car ownership.  HIS car ownership.  Though we allowed him his dalliance with the subject, researching rides online, making queries as to repairs with our mechanic, pricing out insurance and the like, there was never a chance that we'd succumb to the desires of our single-minded son.  But getting him to the point of accepting that fact took a conversation with his big sister's boyfriend, who simply recalled how he had plunked down his dollars for a cheap car and got just what he paid for: at present, he drives nothing, as the junker is permanently in 'the shop.'  He encouraged our new driver to continue to save toward a better vehicle, never once mentioning the relative incongruity of a confident and cocky sixteen year-old having the keys to his own possible death trap.

And that's where we are at present.  Me on the couch, contemplating the future of my youngest child's fledgling career as an operator of a motor vehicle.  Manning whatever car he can finagle his way into courtesy of his parents.  Fighting the urge to text or answer calls.  "Remember, young man," cautioned the DMV employee behind the counter this past Tuesday, "you're driving a car . . . NOT a cell phone!"  Signalling left and right turns on the same local roads on which he learned to follow the laws of traffic.  Bobbing his head to music turned loud enough to thump the speaker but hopefully not strident enough to drown out the siren call of police cars and other emergency vehicles.  Much to his delight, college sister has decided to leave her sporty SUV at home for her baby brother to use until the end of the month.  Oh, joy!

Making It All Official

A Lady With A List

If you find yourself behind him at some point, follow him for just a bit and judge his self-proclaimed prowess.  He has a mild tendency toward leadfootitis, which has more to do with not watching the speedometer than actually hurtling along for the joy of sheer speed itself, but he has a knack for backing out and in that's unparalleled by either of his siblings.  Feel free to shoot me a text, photo or e-mail.

You think I'm kidding?

At least Hank will never drive.  He's much rather chase cars.  And EAT the aforementioned pillow!

Remnants of an Ill-Fated Rescue Attempt: "Alas, poor caladium, I knew it well!"
(Panda was merely a witness and in no way a partner-in-crime.)