So… this is fun.

…and by fun, I mean TERRIFYING BEYOND ALL BELIEF! I promised to talk about the driving. Yes. The DRIVING. The bane of every parents existence.

I admit, my son got a later start then most, because I simply wasn’t ready. I know I talk a big game about not punishing my kids for my own fears, but sometimes you just can’t help it. Thing was, my husband had looked forward to this part of his son’s education, wanting to much to teach him how to drive. Having a teenage son that he loved with all his heart, and got along with, was his biggest dream, as he did not have that with his own parents. He passed away when the boy was 13, and every time we discussed some of the big milestones that Kevin had looked forward too, it broke my heart a little bit.

Thus, when his friends were getting their permits at 14, The Boy waited. When he hit 15, he waited some more, only mentioning it once or twice. I always had the excuse that he hadn’t studied the book, despite the fact he said he was ready. Finally, just before his 16th birthday, I gave in. I was positive he’d fail the test the first time.

He passed.
Dammit.

So, for the past six months, it’s been all about driving. Back and forth to work, one terrifying trip to The Sister City Of Actual Traffic, random excursions here and there. He’s done pretty well, all told, and I’ve only narrowly missed a having a heart attack about 125301237123 times. (And then there were the bruises – not that I’d ever punch my kid in the leg to give him a charlie horse for scaring the shit out of me or anything. Because that would be wrong.) The ‘oh shit!’ bar has certainly gotten it’s workout, that’s all I’m trying to say.

Now it’s September, and in just 2 weeks, he’ll be eligible for his provisional driver’s license. I know. I’m scared too. He’s practically giddy with the thought, and has been getting ‘his’ car up and running and ready. His car would be his daddy’s 74 VW Super Beetle, which means it’s a standard, and we hadn’t worked on that yet, as he wanted to practice and learn on another vehicle, and save his own transmission. Hah.

He got the bug running, and I finally broke down and took him out last weekend. I took him to the same school parking lot where I learned and showed off a bit because I could drive it and he couldn’t. (We just won’t talk about the hysterical-ness that was my fat ass shoved into that tiny car..)

Then it was his turn, and oh! The laughter! There was frustration too, but watching him try to get his big ole feet working those tiny pedals just right, learn to feel the catch in the clutch, couple that with the press of the gas, and hey! remember to steer too! – it was the most fun we’d had together in oh, at LEAST a week.

He’d pop the clutch and slam my head back into the seat, where my hair clip would dig into my head and make me swat at him. He’d stall and shake the steering wheel and cuss, as I would chuckle, and go through the steps again. He’d get it, crow in delight – and forget to slow down before rounding the end of the parking lot, and we’d all be leaning against one side of the little car – hoping it wouldn’t just topple over. He finally made a few passes that were satisfactory, and then I took it for a little spin around the neighborhood before heading home.

His friend, Z, also came over and took the bug for a spin and gave the boy a few more lessons, too. That’s them in the picture, headed to the school for more lessons. As I watched them go, and tried to get pictures without the boys completely diving out of site, I had the curious sensation of my heart sinking and flying all at once. My boys were off into the world (…down the block…) without me, striking out on their own without my presence right there to make sure things went well. Sure, he’s been riding around with his friends for months, but this was different. This time, I knew that in just a couple of weeks I could no longer stop time, I couldn’t hold him back. Soon, it would my son at the wheel, taking his life and his destiny in his own hands.

I’m terrified, yet exhilarated for him at the same time. I can only hope that I’ve taught him well, that he’ll remember, that he’ll do the same things he’d do as if I were right there, hiding in his glovebox. I hope that he behaves as well as I did when my parents set me free to drive on my own.

Damn. Now I’m REALLY glad that there isn’t a back seat in that bug.
(Just kidding, mom!)