Driving for Dummies

It's hard to imagine that sweet little face you adore from the moment of birth will be sneering at you through the windshield of a car while bearing down on your lawn ornaments someday....but alas, that is our destiny.

Being such a frugal (OK....broke) family, my husband and I thought it best if we passed on our own driving experience and knowledge to our boys instead of paying a complete stranger to guide them through this milestone. Kind of a passing of the torch as we fantasized about being driven from place to place by shiny, well mannered, considerate, Gosh-Gee-Golly kinds of young men. That being said, my husband still believes in the Easter Bunny, too.

Strapping himself into the seatbelt, my oldest barely registers my directions to familiarize himself with all the dials and gadgets as he throws the car into gear, mashes the gas pedal to the floor, and launches me into the back seat. Fighting the G-force as I claw my way back into the front seat and struggle to get the seatbelt to fit over all the cheesecake I've been sampling, I frantically wave my arms to catch his attention and try to drown out his "Yeeeeeeeee Haaaawwww"s with my Hail Marys.

Colliding with him on a hairpin turn that was preceded by him shouting "Put your seatbelt on tighter...I wanna try something!", I'm not at all comforted by his declaration that it worked better when he did it on Nintendo.

Having no idea that a red light could be interpreted as a friendly suggestion, I hang on for dear life as my body is subjected to the amount of force usually reserved for a particle accelerator, and pray for the police, or army, or Ninja Turtles to command him to pull over.

Being fully equipped with that magic radar that alerts them to the presence of pretty girls, my son locks up the brakes and comes to a screeching halt at the next crosswalk. Preening his eyebrows as he gives her the "Whatyoudoin" nod, he's unaware of my pawing at the door locks while trying to breathe normally now that my uterus is permanently lodged in my chest cavity.

Accelerating at a rate that would shame a rocket scientist, and ignoring the groceries bouncing off the windshield from the elderly lady trying in vain to reach the safety of the curb, my son decides that now would be a great time to call all his buddies and let them know he's a man.

Ducking the various garbage cans, pylons, and bushes that thump off the hood and threaten to come through the glass as he uses both hands to dial, I'm astounded to hear him saying, "No, really, I'm legal this time...she's actually with me". Snatching the phone and begging his buddy to call 911, I'm disturbed to hear his friend yell "Cool...he's telling the truth! She just said stuff to me!"

Cutting across a once-manicured lawn, my firstborn lays on the horn as he whoops and whistles for his buddies to come outside and bask in his manhood. Leaving a trail of jealous teenagers and dead lawn gnomes, he slams the gas pedal down again and announces that we're heading to the mall.

Still dialing and texting his buddies, he weaves around the cars that are going the right way down this one-way street we find ourselves on, and laments to his buddies about the "idiot old people on the roads".

Turning the radio up to a volume that makes the car doors ripple and peel, he warns me to duck under the dash when we get to the mall so none of his friends can see me and slingshots around a telephone pole.

Slamming on the brakes when his girl radar goes off again, I have no choice but to duck under the dash as I'm catapulted there by the same gravitational pull that keeps the moon afloat. Complaining to his buddy on his cell phone that it was a "false alarm...waaaayyyy over 30...", he engages the overdrive again to create another picture perfect vapor trail.

Speeding into the parking lot, he's completely unconcerned with the hoardes of people barely escaping the clutches of my hood ornament, and eagerly seeks out the faces of Those Too Young To Drive Yet as we go airborne over the speed bumps.

My arm straining against the laws of physics, I manage to force my hand through the time warp ripping open in between us, and pull the keys from the ignition. Ignoring the "JEEZ MOM! YOU WANNA CAUSE AN ACCIDENT OR SOMETHING?!", I realize that the doors are too crumpled to open any more, and slither out of the car where my window used to be.

Gasping for air while I kiss the stationary pavement, I'm hardly aware of the high-fives and "You rock, man!"s coming from the crowds of Those Too Young To Drive kids who have come to worship the man who will be their BFF whenever they need a lift.

Standing on legs that feel like wet noodles, I try to ignore the whimpering and horrified stare of my insurance agent parked next to us as I hail a cab and grab my son's cell phone to call a tow truck.

Safely home, and with shaking hands, I thumb through the Yellow Pages and try to decide which driving school instructor I hate most and will therefore give my business to, wave to the neighbors as they systematically reinforce their fence, and contemplate legally changing my son's name to Ricky-Bobby.

His first car needs to be a horse....