The Driver’s Permit
Dec 31, 2008 04:00PM
● By
Super Admin
My feet brace against the floorboard. My heart sounds like a galloping
horse inside my chest. I grip the dashboard with both hands, which is
dumb because if the airbag deploys, my arms will be snapped like
brittle little branches. But I can’t help myself – I am experiencing
one of the most underrated terrors of parenting: the learner’s permit. For
15 and-a-half years, we’ve only cared about the safety of our children.
From Mr. Yuk stickers on cleaning products to practically encasing them
in bubble wrap before letting them ride a bike or skateboard, we have
exercised a remarkably okay, sometimes excessive, degree of control to
help our kids remain unscarred. But all that “control” ends
the day they get their driver’s permit. It’s the first real whiff most
of us get in learning that from here on out, our teen’s fate will lie
less with us, and more with their own developing judgment skills. And,
with this particular milestone you get to sit right there with them and
share the consequences of any momentary lapse of reason. The
child is my daughter, Emma. For most of her life we maintained that she
would never drive until she turned 18. But, that changed when she hit
high school and we suddenly found ourselves serving as her personal
chauffeurs for her increasingly busy school and social calendar. She’s
a lousy tipper to boot. So she spent much of the summer whittling away
at her online driver’s test, proudly reporting that she’d scored 88
percent on the final exam. “What about the other 12 percent?” I asked.
“Oh it was something about merging onto the freeway, and what you do if
your brakes fail,” she responded. Great. “I’m joking, dad.” Ha. Ha.They
say there are no atheists in foxholes? I would also add “or in
passenger seats next to someone with a learner’s permit.” In fact,
barreling down Roseville Parkway with your inexperienced 15 year-old is
pretty much the definition of faith: faith in God, your kid, other
drivers, and your vehicle’s air bags. You suddenly appreciate the
preciousness of life, and how fast 45 mph really is.I am by
nature a fairly excitable individual. I can’t help it. I cheer when my
team scores. I applaud good news. I scream at oncoming headlights. So
it’s been a challenge these last few months to maintain a consistent
level of calm in certain driving situations. I have found that
politeness helps. “Dearest daughter, you almost cut in front of that speeding cement truck.”“I had my blinker on.”“My lovely first child, did you know he was even there?”“After he honked, yes.”“Reflection of your mother’s beauty, if you do that again you’ll be riding public transportation until you’re 80.”Truthfully
though, she’s getting better. She’s learned that yellow does not mean
“punch it,” the radio is best left on dad’s station, and a good left
turn means all four tires remain in contact with the pavement. She’s
even learned to use her blinker. In a few scary months, it will be like
setting a baby duck free to paddle across a pond that you know is
filled with voracious, duckling-loving bass. Comforting, right? I
know 2009 is going to be an interesting year for all of us: a new
president, an uncertain economy, the Kings. But unless you’re in the
same passenger seat as my wife and me, count your blessings. And if you
see a red Passat with a starry-eyed teen behind the wheel, and Dad with
his eyes closed in what looks to be prayer, please, give us room.
Especially if you’re driving a cement truck. Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1.
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