My son started driving.  I am celebrating and scared to death at the same time.  He’s still in the permit phase, for 4 more months.  He needs it.  I don’t know if I can take it.  I want him to drive.  I’m tired of driving him to all of his activities, especially the ones far away.  However, it is going to be a very long next four months.

Rest Stop. Parents breathe.

I do like the one-on-one time in the car with each of the boys.  I can say all the things the parenting experts tell you not to do right after school: How was the math test?  Did you get your essay back?  Do you have a lot of homework tonight?  Then I can drone on about what the schedule is for the rest of the day, say a scout meeting for example.  That takes about five minutes.  Then I’m told a funny story or two about school or asked if I got the graph paper yet?  What’s for dinner?  Did you buy more pot stickers?

With a permit driver, I’m afraid to talk too much.  I don’t want to distract him.  The music is off.   Since he wants to drive every second he can, he drives to and from school while I ride shotgun.  Our relaxing time together is over, at least for me.  I can’t really talk to him.  It’s not like I can just sit back and text away or check Facebook. I can drink more coffee provided I don’t sip or swallow at intersections. We both need to pay attention, 150%!  He’s there to learn and I get the honor of teaching him.  Shotgun view:

10 Ways Permit Drivers Change The Shotgun View

1. Twenty-five miles per hour feels like fifty miles per hour.  Younger siblings feel exactly the opposite, twenty-five miles per hour feels like five miles per hour.  Younger siblings prefer mom to drive as do moms.
2. The center yellow line, double or dotted scares the permit driver to death, sending the vehicle almost to the curb and thus scares the passenger to death.  Pedestrians or parked cars don’t seem to make a difference; the permit driver stays the heck away from that yellow line.  If I had known the power of yellow paint earlier, I would have painted yellow borders around all kinds of places and things in the house, especially my secret chocolate stash.
3. Red lights and stop signs are a blessing.  It gives the parent a chance to exhale and to explain what to look out for, like pedestrians, cyclists, little kids and  drivers who don’t follow the rules at an intersection.
4. Both the permit driver and the parent need to read the handbook again. Permit drivers use language like “protected left turn” and the passenger thinks they are on the same page until a near-miss collision.  In fact, it is an unprotected left turn and “we” should yield to the incoming traffic.
5. Any turn is frightening.  Wide, wide turns with a last minute correction leave everyone wondering if the car will end up in median or the next lane over.  I don’t scream in terror for fear of making matters worse.  My eyes and facial expression tell all.  My friend passed us and witnessed my horror.  She sent a text with every emoticon associated with fear and angst and an LOL. My husband instructed him to take the turn sooner.  Magic words I just didn’t have and couldn’t fathom why it wasn’t innate to know how to turn.
6. I love the pesky motorcycle cop prowling our neighborhood, staked out in bushes and hidden driveways.  Everybody knows him in town and they know he’s not nice.  My hygienist and dentist know him too as he camps outside their office.  They say his teeth are the color of their cabinets, cocoa brown, adding to his unsavoriness.  Because he lurks, he’s just the big brother to hang over a new driver.
7. Speed limit signs read “27” or “42” or “37” in his eyes.  His first driving teacher said it was ok to go two miles over the speed limit.  I see the numbers as “23” or “38” or  “33.”   I can tell without even looking if he’s over the limit.  It’s very clear at our house, a ticket equals riding a bike to school his junior year; we compromised, the speed limit means what it says to both of us.
8. I loved the posse of police inhabiting our streets for a week.  Speedsters grace my neighborhood, particularly at elementary school drop-off and pick-up.  Neighbors complained, rightly so.  Groups of three motorcycle cops cast big nets to trap oodles of cars in one small stretch.  How real can you make a traffic ticket for a permit driver than a mega-speed trap?
9. All parking spots are microscopic.  How can anyone park any size car in those tiny slots?  I get nauseous while he centers the car between the yellow lines, back and forth and back and forth.
10. Three car-lengths distance is not enough; it just isn’t.  Training with our SUV, THE GREAT WHITE BUS is a good thing.

Training Wheels.

Stories of permit drivers get people talking, even for the non-chatty like my dentist.   He offered up how he drove himself and his younger siblings to judo, from Santa Rosa to Oakland; his kids will never do this.  My hygienist learned to drive at twelve, a Cadillac on a country road.  My friend from the Czech Republic took a whole year to learn, including the snowy months.  And we all used simulators back in the day.

I don’t remember spending six months with a permit or driving with my parents.  I’m positive stories exist.  I do remember learning to drive a clutch with my mom, “Let the clutch out ginnnn-gerlyyyy.”  If I didn’t know what gingerly meant, I certainly got it by the way she said it.  I remember using simulators in high school and the teacher cracking up in the back of the room anytime someone crashed on screen.  It’s better than a comedy movie.  I’m sure it wasn’t me.  One class period we practiced live turns  and parallel parking in a huge lot with orange cones.  Instructors in a control tower broadcast commands and stifled snickers via radio to all the student cars.  “Car #3, back off the cone.”  Again, I’m sure it wasn’t ever me.

Any driving stories you dare to share?