Car Keys of the Kingdom
I'm teaching my 17 year old daughter to drive.
I have repeated more sotto voce Hail Marys during this weeks-old effort than in the previous eleven years since I became a Catholic. (Rachel informs me that the handle over the door, which passengers are prone to grab in moments of panic, has been dubbed by professional driving instructors the Jesus Bar.)
This is the first time I've been expected to include, in my duty to instruct my offspring, activities that endanger my life. Oh, I don't seriously think she's going to kill me, or anyone else, really. She's not such a bad driver, given her level of inexperience, that little fishtailing episode after she ran into a curb notwithstanding. She's cautious, she pays attention, she's courteous, and she thinks ahead. Once she passes that frontier of familiarity, the one where you finally start performing the routine tasks of driving automatically, she'll be as safe a driver as it's possible to be on the overcrowded, nut-infested highways of metro DC.
But still. I have to sit next to her, willing myself not to grab the Jesus bar, my legs so tense I'm storing up charlie horses for the next nine months, and let her control a 5000 lb. vehicle travelling a mile a minute. I'm expected to do this not because I have any special skill at it, but simply because I am her parent and it's my responsibility.
There have been times and places when parents fulfilling their duty to instruct their children in the faith were in far more real danger than I am in the front seat of the Jeep. There are places today where that is true: China, Saudi Arabia, Muslim Africa, Indonesia. I try to keep that in mind while I'm hyperventilating.
I have repeated more sotto voce Hail Marys during this weeks-old effort than in the previous eleven years since I became a Catholic. (Rachel informs me that the handle over the door, which passengers are prone to grab in moments of panic, has been dubbed by professional driving instructors the Jesus Bar.)
This is the first time I've been expected to include, in my duty to instruct my offspring, activities that endanger my life. Oh, I don't seriously think she's going to kill me, or anyone else, really. She's not such a bad driver, given her level of inexperience, that little fishtailing episode after she ran into a curb notwithstanding. She's cautious, she pays attention, she's courteous, and she thinks ahead. Once she passes that frontier of familiarity, the one where you finally start performing the routine tasks of driving automatically, she'll be as safe a driver as it's possible to be on the overcrowded, nut-infested highways of metro DC.
But still. I have to sit next to her, willing myself not to grab the Jesus bar, my legs so tense I'm storing up charlie horses for the next nine months, and let her control a 5000 lb. vehicle travelling a mile a minute. I'm expected to do this not because I have any special skill at it, but simply because I am her parent and it's my responsibility.
There have been times and places when parents fulfilling their duty to instruct their children in the faith were in far more real danger than I am in the front seat of the Jeep. There are places today where that is true: China, Saudi Arabia, Muslim Africa, Indonesia. I try to keep that in mind while I'm hyperventilating.
Posted by Kathy on
Monday September 5, 2005 at 1:33pm
You know, when I was a kid, there used to be this thing called "driver education", which didn't cost all that much and was actually offered for free in some school systems. My mother shelled out for it in the summer of 1974, I believe, for precisely the reasons you're making so eloquently clear: it's scary to be in a car with an adolescent. Heck, I'm scared to be on the same road with them. I'm not helped much by the fact that my wife has a good friend whose brother killed her entire family (except for her, obviously, and one other brother) in a car crash that was due mainly to the fact that he was inexperienced and didn't know how to react when a tire blew. But then, I'm not all that sure that I would know what to do if a tire blew out on the freeway.
I've still got five years before Michael gets his license. With any luck, gasoline will be $10 a gallon by then, and he won't want to drive anywhere.
I am not, however, entirely new at this. John grew up in a city with reliable public tranportation and perfect year round weather, so when he married me at the age of 24 he was qualified to drive nothing larger than a moped. I taught him not only to drive, but to drive a stick shift. That our marriage survived that early challenge convinced me we were destined for the long haul.
After 13 years, if we're both in the car I still usually drive, though. He doesn't like it when I hiss and grab the Jesus Bar.