The Driver’s License

Still an exciting rite of passage

This morning I will take my two daughters to the Motor Vehicle Branch where they will take the driver’s examination. Their excitement at the prospect of driving is palpable. The trepidation in my stomach is also palpable. When did I get so old and so parent-like?

I obtained my driver’s license at sixteen by taking the young driver’s program through our high school. Terrified of my driving instructor, I spent a lot of time praying and gripping the wheel. He was a stern, humorless man who was no doubt serious in his task but slightly irritated by his fate of having to teach ungrateful youths the rules of road. Countless hours were also spent with my father in extra practice in his fire red, 1969 Acadian — the large steering wheel of the car so hard to turn that you felt like you had a workout after every lesson. That car and me were never one. I always felt like I was driving a large boat in the middle of all the other cars or parking a five-ton truck in that space instead of a car. I often thought about my Dad and that car. A big, shy, conservative man driving a bright, red car with shiny chrome hub-caps. Did the car bring back memories of youthful energy or was it just the best deal on the lot? I wondered.

Like any Dad, I think he was proud and frightened to see me behind the wheel. Looking at me, the same way I look at my daughter — still imagining her in pig-tails and braces instead of the young adult that she is now. The battle between parent and child is still the same. The parent believes he is teaching and the child receives the words as judgment. Tears, frustration, elation, success and a sense of accomplishment are all part of the journey. As is the reality of the crick in my neck from trying to pull the car, in my mind, away from the parked cars, or the soreness in my foot from applying those imaginary brakes.

Freedom. It is a glorious feeling. You suddenly feel you are in control of your destiny. No longer needing your parent’s to pick you up or drive you. For the parent, it is another loss. A good-bye. The empty nest coming sooner than you want it.

I recall my sense of joy when I passed the exam. Almost like a self-righteous flip of the finger at anyone, including Mr. No Humor, that thought I could not do it. Somewhere, that sneaky Mr. No Humor was laughing; he did his job well.

Yes, it is still a great rite of passage — except with power-steering, cameras, and heated seats.

Go to it, girls.

Love Mom.