Humor | Parenting
Mum, I Don’t Want You to Teach Me How to Drive
“Mom, can we go driving?”
“Sure, son.”
I want nothing more than to see you in the driver’s seat of my ancient car. The one that splutters at every bump and will soon enjoy its golden years.
Her name is Elizabeth. And she’s our only one.
But, motherly love is unconditional.
“So, yes I’ll take you for a drive. But if you crash, I’ll disown you. I’ll keep the money I’ve saved for you since birth. And I’ll buy myself a new car.”
We can do this. Elizabeth can do this. Let’s go.
The industrial estate is quiet. Not a soul in sight. Only a few cars parked. Phew! Nothing my insurance couldn’t handle.
“Keep away from buildings, cars, and people.”
Not in this order, I instruct. He turns the key and the engine roars.
We’re driving, gear scratching, and I sweat like a horse.
“You’re doing great. Now, move to second gear.”
It’ll be ok.
“Slowly turn around. You’re in fourth gear.”
When did that happen? We’re going at 10 mph.
“Downshift a notch.”
The car stalls. I jerk. My bag bounces off my lap. Now, its contents are on the floor. My wallet, phone, painkillers, and lip balm are rolling around my feet.
“Don’t worry, son. You watch the road.”
He starts again. I sweat profusely. I fetch my deodorant from the mess on the floor and spray some on my coat. It doesn’t help. It’s not my coat that’s sweating.
“Well, done. Shall we take a breather?”
He looks at me. “I don’t need a breather.”
Of course, he doesn’t. We just got started. So, off we go.
“You’re doing amazing. Just go slow, second gear. Well done. Careful, watch the parked car on your left. Avoid the picnic table.”
Picnic table? What the fuck is a picnic table doing in a car park?
It won’t be there for much longer. Not if my son has anything to say about it.
“Ok, just keep straight now. Slow down, we’re not here to rally.”
“ I could totally rally,” he says and pushes on the gas. “Aww, this is so fun!”
We’re flying on a 20-meter-long road. There’s a puddle under my armpits. I rip off my coat. Someone, please give me a Xanax.
I search the chaos by my feet. No Xanax. But, there’s a (used) tissue. I might use it to dry my armpits. An inhaler. Is there Xanax in that? Or Valium? A sanitary towel. They’d be good to cover my eyes.
I’ll go with Paracetamol. Two of them. Will they take the edge off?
“You must pay attention, driving is a serious matter.”
I scold the boy child. He turns into a parking slot and reverses Elizabeth between the white lines. Perfect, you can at least park, I think.
“Can we go now?” I ask, hopeful.
“No way.”
And we’re off again.
He sprints out of the car park onto the straight road. And we’re zooming through the industrial estate.
“Slow down!” I shriek.
Horror in my eyes. At least, that’s what I think I look like. It’s an “outside-of-the-body” moment. Paracetamol is no good to take the edge off. I should’ve tried the inhaler.
“Careful! Cat, cat, cat!”
A black one as well. Not good. I turn around. Did he make it? Never mind, it’s got another eight lives. At least, I hope so for its sake.
Now, he sweats, too. My son, not the cat. I spray some deodorant on his jumper and wind down the window.
“Did I hit him?” He asks, remorseful.
“No, you didn’t,” I reply. But, I’m not sure. We’ll see if we did on our way back. But I don’t tell him this. “You’re doing great, just keep calm.”
No, not like your mother. I said keep calm and watch the road.
He needs an instructor. And I need therapy. We roll into a car park. Again.
I turn my head and spot a caravan on my left. Big, bold letters say: YOU WON’T FIND DRUGS IN THIS VEHICLE!
What the heck? Did they know I was coming? I lose hope. Next time we’ll go elsewhere.
I became an addict in five minutes. How is that possible? Ok, let’s go for another round. The last one, I say.
We go round and round, like the wheels on the bus. I sing it to myself. But my brain can’t focus. There’s a black blob on the road. Is that the cat? Oh, no no no! We killed the cat. It must’ve been his last life. Daredevil.
“Mum, is that cat? I killed a cat!”
He panics. He’s on the verge of crying. The car comes to a halt.
“Calm down. It’s not your fault. It committed suicide.”
Next time it’ll think twice. My eyes well with tears. We killed an innocent soul.
Only if we could go back in time.
But we don’t need to.
The blob moves. Did the cat rise from the dead?
Moving is not the word. It flies. The wind lifts it as if it’s a feather and carries it high into the air. We look at it in horror. What a disgraceful end. Where will it land?
It looks buoyant. And filled with air as it gently rides the wind.
And why wouldn’t it? It’s a plastic bag. It’s a fucking, black plastic bag. What are the chances? It’s not our cat. He made it, after all.
We’re not killers, just hysterical. From the relief of not being killers. It’s exhausting.
“Shall we go home, now?” I ask with determination in my voice.
He looks at me, defeated.
“Mum, I don’t want you to teach me to drive.”
“Agreed, son. Not without Xanax anyway.”
