A housekeeper, a personal chef, a Jaguar convertible; these are a few of life’s luxuries that I occasionally dream of but could never afford. Of course I would only drive the Jag on my chauffeur’s day off. The rest of the time I would be more than happy to be carted around in a limousine while someone else does the driving. A chauffeur would be a dream come true because driving makes me tense and nervous, and frankly, I’m not very good at it.
Well, as of last week, my dream came true. Sort of. My fifteen year old daughter completed her classroom sessions at A+ Driving School and now I have the luxury of being chauffeured all about town in my mini van.
Her first time behind the wheel was just a quick trip down the driveway. I told her to put the car in drive, but she didn’t know what that meant. I explained that she needed to move the gear shift until the line moved from P to D. She totally freaked out. “I don’t see it!” she screeched as she frantically looked on the steering wheel for a P. I calmly went inside the house and told hubby that he would need to teach her the basics because unfortunately the P does not stand for patience.
So, every day for a week, hubby took her over hill and over dale while I stayed home and prayed. (That’s what the P should stand for.) Then hubby left the country for two weeks. He said it had nothing to do with teaching a teenage girl how to drive, but I have my suspicions. At that point, the driving lessons became my responsibility.
I have to admit, now that she knows the little things, like which pedal is the accelerator, I’m a pretty good instructor. She said that I don’t yell like Daddy does and she appreciates my laid back, relaxed way of saying, “Stay on your own side of the road!”
I hated to disillusion her, but I had to admit that is probably because Daddy is judging her based on his cautious, capable driving style, and I’m judging her based on my more casual approach. She nodded her head and divulged, “Daddy is always saying, ‘Don’t drive like your mother.'”
In my own defense, I never had the privilege of driver’s ed when I was a teen. My dad taught me to drive on back roads and empty parking lots and the rest I learned by trial and error; more errors than I care to admit. By the time I reached the age of nineteen I had six police reports filed under my name, one ticket for failure to yield, one speeding ticket, and at least eleven additional incidents that did not require police involvement. I’m not bragging, by any means. Just stating the ugly facts.
When I went to the BMV, or DMV as it’s called in Tennessee, to take my driver’s test the examiner did not like me at all. When we pulled back into the parking lot she very pointedly said, “Gingeretta, I really should fail you, but I do NOT want to see you again!” And she checked off the box that read, “passed.”
Now that my daughter is learning the rules of the road, my driving is beginning to improve. She is constantly admonishing me with such statements as, “Mom, shouldn’t you drive with your hands instead of your knee?”
“Mom, do you know how many accidents are caused by people talking on their cell phones?”
“Mom, are you aware of the number of car lengths there should be between us and that guy whose bumper you are riding?”
“Mom, do you have any idea what that yield sign actually means?”
I am more than happy to let her take over the wheel and drive me wherever I need to go. She knows more, she’s conscientious, and it’s a relief for me not to have to think so hard.
Soon hubby will be home from Nicaragua, where all the drivers are worse than me and no one follows the rules. I suspect he will be very pleased with his daughter’s progress. Between the two of them, and my son who will start driving in less than two short years, I will never have to drive again. Oh, what a luxury!
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