Let me set the scene: an empty parking lot, a Tuesday afternoon, and me handing my second born child the keys to a two ton machine while whispering "you've got this" like I actually believed it.
We started with the basics. Mirrors. Seat position. Where the brake is, as opposed to the gas, which are two completely different pedals, that apparently look identical to a teenager under stress.
"Which one's the brake again?"
"The one on the left. The one we just spent ten minutes talking about."
"Right, right."
We were not moving yet. We were still in park.
The car started with the enthusiasm of a horror movie jump scare, and we were off , into a parking lot, at roughly the speed of a determined snail, while my hand hovered over the door handle like I was preparing to tuck and roll at a moment's notice.
My kid gripped the wheel with both hands at what I can only describe as "10 and 2, if 10 and 2 were both actually 12." We drifted toward a shopping cart corral with the slow, unstoppable menace of a glacier.
"Turn the wheel."
"I AM turning the wheel."
"Turn it more."
We did not hit the shopping carts. I want that on the record. The shopping carts survived. My nervous system did not.
Things I Said Out Loud, Unprompted, in a Tone of Rising Panic
- "Mirrors are not a suggestion."
- "That's a stop sign, not a stop suggestion."
- "Why are we accelerating toward the mailbox."
- "I'm fine. I'm totally fine. Please slow down."
- "No, you don't need to honk at the squirrel, the squirrel has this handled."
Eventually we graduated to an actual road, which is when I discovered that my calm, rational, competent child transforms into a small woodland creature the moment another car appears in the vicinity. A car passing us two lanes over. Two lanes, mind you, no threat whatsoever ,triggered a full body flinch and a swerve that suggested we were under direct enemy fire.
"That car is not going to hurt us."
"IT WAS SO CLOSE."
"It was thirty feet away and in a different lane."
"IT WAS RIGHT THERE."
I have never appreciated the passenger-side "oh no" handle above the door more in my life. I gripped it like a man on a rollercoaster who has made peace with his choices but not with the drop.
The Silver Lining
Here's the thing nobody tells you. Somewhere between the fifth near miss with a mailbox and the surprisingly smooth three point turn that made us both gasp like we'd witnessed a magic trick, it got fun. My kid started laughing at their own mistakes instead of spiraling about them. I started trusting the brake pedal reflex I definitely did not have before this whole ordeal began. We even had actual conversations, the kind that only happen in a car, where nobody has to make eye contact and everything feels a little more honest.
There was a moment, merging onto a quiet road, sun coming through the windshield, when my kid checked both mirrors, signaled, and eased in like they'd been doing it for years. And I felt this ridiculous surge of pride, right alongside the abject terror, which I'm told is basically the entire emotional experience of parenting in miniature.
Where We Are Now
We're four lessons in. Nobody has hit anything. I have started involuntarily pressing an imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side of the car, which apparently is a permanent personality trait now. My caffeine consumption has tripled. And somewhere in there, my kid is turning into someone who can actually drive. Which is terrifying, and a little bit wonderful, and mostly just makes me want to lie down.
Send help. Send snacks. Send a car with reinforced bumpers. We've got a highway lesson next week.
Pray for me.
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