Humor
Driving Mom Crazy
By Savannah Monk
Humor
Note: Names have been changed to protect the guilty
Sixteen years, three months and two days after he was born, my son received his temporary driver’s permit.
Five hours into the required 50-hours of in-the-car training (with Dad), something possessed me to get in the car with this young man.
Two minutes into the drive I discovered this was a bad idea. I calmly and quietly instructed my son to turn into the next street, pull over to the curb, give me the keys and get out.
This inaugural drive did not bode well for our relationship or the rest of his driver’s training experience.
Two weeks later, my husband pointedly tells me that I simply must get over this phobia and participate in teaching the boy to drive. He is doing the best that he can but our son needs to drive varied routes and I am more available during the day.
And so I foolishly get into the car again as the sky fills with ominous black clouds. But the route to Grandma’s house is short and direct and certainly we will arrive there with her soup before gale-force winds begin to blow.
Or not.
Turning left a little too sharply into oncoming traffic sets the tone for future pleasantries between mother and son as I inhale a little too loudly through clenched teeth. "It's fine, Mom. Relax. You're distracting me" he says.
Ok. I'll be quiet. "You're doing great. Really. Great. Just keep your eyes on the road."
With my right hand grasping the door handle and the left clutching the seat, I tell myself that I'll just close my eyes like I do in a scary movie and it'll soon be over. But wait! I'm the only licensed driver in this car! I can't just block out the endless stretch of road before us. Uttering a clearly audible prayer, I settle in for the long haul.
Another left turn at a four-way stop. No worries. All is well. B-r-e-a-t-h-e. The road narrows and the car is hugging the right shoulder. And here comes a mailbox. Whooooosh! A narrow miss as the wind picks up and raindrops splatter the windshield.
Calm down, Mom," says my son.
"Hey, I didn't say a word!" I say defensively.
"I had plenty of room," he snips.
No response.
"Plus, I figure it's always better to go off the right side of the road than into oncoming traffic," he adds. Unless you're on a mountain, I think. But I bite my lip and taste blood. I'm being good.
Heaven help us. He needs to find the windshield wiper control and drive at the same time.
Resisting the urge to reach over and turn on the wiper myself, I try that close your eyes thing-for just a second-and it works! Well, maybe this isn't so bad after all.
The wind and rain pour down. We make it to Grandma's to deliver the soup (remarkably still in its covered bowl) and I decide to brave the return trip with driver-in-training at the wheel as darkness descends.
We arrive home-finally-without incident and my son announces that I make him nervous! He apparently isn't anxious to drive with me again anytime soon.
And until we merge onto the freeway ¼ mile from our home, I keep my end of the bargain. "THERE'S A CAR THERE! I scream as our minivan eases dangerously between a sports car and a pickup. "I saw it!" he yells back. "C'mon, Mom! Relax!"
And so it goes. I refrain from lecturing for the remaining 25 minutes of the drive by practicing the Lamaze breathing techniques I was convinced would help me deliver this same child years ago. Nice that it comes in handy once again, though it works just about as well as it did the first time. Sporadically. Unfortunately, the sweet stuffed doll "focal point" I used last time has been replaced with a road full of two-ton death machines on wheels.
Then I hear the cell phone sing in the back seat. My eyes dart towards my novice driver and he reverts into defensive mode. "Mom, it's in the back seat like I promised. And I won't reach for it or look at it or answer it EVER."
Ok. Maybe something is sinking in. (He'll keep it turned on, however, just in case we have to track him down because he is AWOL late at night or something sinister occurs. Not that I'm paranoid or anything.)
When we arrive at our destination, my son turns to me and says, "I'm proud of you, Mom. You did great."
Great, indeed. I smile wearily. The shaking has subsided.
Nearly ten weeks and two driver's tests later, the official license is granted.
My teen is thrilled to have occasional use of Dad's car (driving the minivan is embarrassing, you know). His father has dutifully made the necessary insurance arrangements and is adjusting well to his Saturday night respite from driving.
Mom, however, has started the slow and certain descent into insanity that began with that first ride.
Savannah Monk is a freelance writer, wife and mother of three. Her first book (Tales from the Life of a Half-Witted Wife) will be published whenever she calms down long enough to write it.
