Once again, I have run into new parenting territory that not one person has ever taken the time to mention to me. I’ve not seen articles about it nor have I read best selling books on the topic. Why are the terrors of teaching your teen to drive not mentioned at high school orientation or in any public space I have ever entered? This is some next level frightening stuff. Handing my child car keys is the thought equivalent of handing my once four-year-old sharp scissors and telling her to run like the wind.  I am having some difficulty with my fears, which for once are completely rational.

Before I sat in the car with my child, I couldn’t help but reflect on my first driving experience. When I was fourteen, my dad pulled his truck over on a random road and suggested I give driving a try. I had never expressed an interest in driving, so I found the suggestion surprising. His truck was enormous, and I might have been five feet tall, depending on my shoes that day. The road he chose for my first drive looked like something you’d see in Monte Carlo. It was a winding back road with no lines and no median. I was approximately twenty seconds into my first drive when my dad yelled the worst curse word I knew and certainly one I had never heard spoken by a family member. I did what any mature teen would do and covered my face and began to cry until he returned to the driver’s seat. I am pretty sure I put my foot on the brake first. It would be another year before I attempted to drive again.

With the memory of my first driving experience haunting me, I knew our time together would be different. I would not repeat my negative driving experience. She would be incapable of ruffling my feathers. Maybe we would have so much fun we would go get our nails done after to celebrate. How bad could it be? She’d been driving for a few weeks with her dad, and she told me repeatedly how much better she had been getting. She said her dad no longer prayed before they left and the last time they drove he shared that his back didn’t even sweat that much. This sounded like progress to me.

Soon the two of us were off for our leisurely driving lesson time together.  Unlike my first driving experience, she nailed her first twenty or so seconds. We got out of the garage safely, and we were making our way down the road nicely for about one minute. Suddenly, I started to realize that my side of the car was getting uncomfortably close to tree branches. I held on to the handle above the window, but I started to hear it tear. I think it might be attached with glue. Who knew? I have a new car, so this ripping sound definitely concerned me. I decided that I shouldn’t put the burden of my stress on the safety handle alone, so I held onto both the handle and the visor to distribute my fear evenly. I didn’t want to discourage her completely but shared we didn’t work with the tree trimming crew and perhaps I needed a little more space between me and the branches. She explained she hadn’t actually hit a branch yet. With the handle above my head continuing to rip and the sweatiness of my palms loosening my grip, I searched for more stability and support. The addition of the visor had worked for a while, but she was not feeling encouraged by my body language, so I clasped my hands tightly in my lap and stretched my legs out completely. To my surprise, and with the good luck of my wearing open toed sandals, I realized there was another bar way down in the foot space of my car. With my legs completely elongated and my hands clasped politely in my lap, I wrapped my toes around this mystery bar. Maybe holding on this way would make me feel better. I was pretty sure I looked calm and confident in her abilities. Then I noticed the mailboxes.

I knew I needed to remain supportive and positive. The only tears that I would allow on this drive were going to be those of my own relief once I got out of the car. I thought humor would be a nice touch so I said, “Are we delivering mail? If we are not, I need you to tell me why I am much too close to all these mailboxes.” She told me she hadn’t hit anything and that I was no longer allowed to talk. She explained that any direction I was giving her was an action that she was already putting into process in her driving attempt, and that I wasn’t even giving her a chance to correct herself before I spoke. Despite her reassuring words of, “I got you, Little Momma,” I was not trusting her process.

I decided that, unless it was a true emergency, I would follow her no talking rule. So, we carried on with our now silent driving lesson while I clasped my sweaty palms in my lap, leaned away from my window with my legs fully outstretched and toes wrapped around the mystery bar at my feet. It was pretty quiet and manageable for a minute or two, but then I began the uncontrollable gasps. She did not like this either, and so the no gasping rule was put into place. At this point, I was not allowed to talk, gasp, or give negative body language including holding onto the bar above my head. It was getting complicated. Then something else happened. We came to a place where many cars were parked on the side of the road. This is when my uncontrollable wincing started. She attempted to make a no wincing rule, but this one was non-negotiable for me.

I don’t really know how to explain how close my passenger side was to these parked vehicles. Have you ever seen one of those action movies where the two characters in the front seat find themselves in a really bad driving predicament and turn to look at one another and scream in horror because it all seems hopeless? It was sort of like that, but she was totally calm and looking straight ahead. Were sparks going to fly off the passenger side? Were cops and helicopters going to chase after us? I knew we were only going thirty, but it definitely felt like sixty.

The girl was right: She did not hit anything. If that is what constitutes a successful drive for a teen, then she nailed it. I can’t help but think that, if the two of us do indeed have guardian angels, they got out of that car and applied for an immediate transfer. While neither of us cried, we also did not high five and get our nails done in the end like I had hoped. I was told I was not as “chill” as dad, and I was not the preferred parent for driving hours. I can live with that.

Whether or not she likes it, she is stuck with me for the rest of her summer driving course. I am sure those remaining 24 drive hours will just fly by. Perhaps I should choose to be positive. Maybe grasping the mystery bar with my toes will build up my calf muscles. Maybe all the perspiration on my face after the lessons will give me a healthy, youthful glow.  But, most likely, she will just be driving me crazy all summer long.