You know when you get a new car and you become incredibly fastidiously perfectionistically nervous about it? Chips and pings and minor scratches that you can only see in a certain light (from a certain angle)? These are suddenly the stuff of nightmares. You basically hold your breath for six months — or until you get a teensy tiny dent — whichever comes first.
Being the mother of a new driver is pretty much the same thing.
We used to have a hard and fast rule that my daughter had to text me when she left place A and again when she reached place B. These succinct missives ("leaving," "here") assured that my panic attacks were as brief as possible. I can tell you exactly how many minutes it takes to get to the stable from our house. 32. At the half-hour mark, I start watching the back gate.
I've relaxed a bit in the 18+ months that she's been driving. I still watch the clock sometimes, but I stay pretty cool.
On the outside at least.
Here in Massachusetts, teen drivers aren't allowed to use their mobile phones while they're operating a vehicle. This is meant to keep them (and others) safer. It also means that any call that comes in while she's supposed to be behind the wheel is probably not good news. We had one such call last year. She was driving home through the neighboring town and — after pulling over, good girl — called to say the car was making a terrible noise. Luckily, I was home and able to rescue her. 'Turns out she had been driving on a flat tire. By the time she parked and I arrived, it was shredded beyond repair.
"I'm soooo sorry," she moaned when I showed her the source of the mystery noise.
Not a big deal, I assured her. "It's a thing, not a person." Her father replaced the tire on his way home from work and with only a minor hassle of car-juggling, it was back and on the road (with new tires) in short order.
After that first call, I actually breathed a sigh of relief. If she was going to have an on-road crisis — and we all have them sooner or later — this was a fairly benign one, right?
Fast-forward a year or so, and I was in the kitchen starting dinner when I got a text from her. "Leaving," she wrote. I smiled and didn't think much of it. Until about ten minutes later when the phone rang and caller ID told me who the caller was.
"I'm at Endicott," she told me (that's a local college). "I got rear-ended."
Breathe, I reminded myself. She's obviously alive and conscious and must still have at least one or two of her fingers or she couldn't have hit "Mom" on the speed dial.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, but the car is really bad."
"Okay, but you're all right. Is the other driver all right?"
"Yes, she's here. She's very nice."
"Okay, there are things you have to do now. You have to exchange licenses and registration and insurance and ... here's your father." I gave the phone to my husband, my hand shaking, grateful he was there to take over.
My daughter was right, the other driver was very nice. When she called a few minutes later to talk to us, she explained that it was "only a tap." But, given that my daughter was driving a Miata (my Miata, my first car, my bright red baby, 24-years-old and perfectly maintained) and the other driver was in a bigger, heavier vehicle, well ... there's no such thing as a "tap." The rear of my adorable sportscar was crumpled like an accordion.
"I'm sooooooo sorry," my daughter moaned about a half an hour later when she and what was left of the Miata arrived home. We could tell she'd been crying.
"It's a thing, not a person," I told her, hugging her tight. "It's okay. It's totally okay."
'Turns out it was totally totaled. In the face-off between damage and book value, 24-year-old cars don't usually win.
But, my enterprising husband has a plan. He's found pristine Miatas like ours listed at higher-than-book-value prices. He's found secondary market parts and body panels. He's found a mechanic a few towns over who is an expert in "antique" Miatas. My bright red baby will ride again. It may just be a while.
And, I'm all right with that. Because I have my real baby.
And she's totally okay.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
On our recent endlessly exhausting drive across New York, my teenage daughter and I noticed a number of signs on the thruway:
IT CAN WAIT
TEXT STOP 5 MILES
At first, I read it as "I.T. can wait." I.T. is the acronym for Information Technology, and in larger companies the I.T. department provides tech support. (Okay, I already said that the drive was endlessly exhausting, didn't I?) Of course, what they were referring to was "it," not "I.T." — "it" being that oh-so-urgent communication, practically burning a hole in your pocket, and demanding to be sent STAT.
Essentially, the new signs and the 100 or so new designated rest areas are the Empire State's concerted effort to curb texting and driving.
Texting and driving ranks high on the list of the stupidest, most self-destructive things we can do these days. It should have its own separate division of The Darwin Awards, which recognize individuals who have contributed to human evolution by self-selecting themselves out of the gene pool. In other words, they really die because they're really dumb.
Really funny, right?
Not really.
We all know not to text and drive. We've seen the deeply disturbing commercials warning us (in many cases with the most graphical depictions) of the consequences. As parents of new drivers, we anxiously (frantically) remind our teens to put away the phones when they're behind the wheel.
Nevertheless, when that little "ding" goes off, alerting you to an incoming — no doubt, mission-critical — text, it's very hard not to check and see what it is. My daughter has promised to keep her phone on "airplane mode" whenever she's driving. I trust her intention, but I also know she's human. So, I nag and nag and nag, and then sometimes I pray a little too.
It's become as dangerous as drinking and driving. Don't believe me?
In 2011, at least 23% of all auto collisions — 1.3 million of them — involved a cell phone.
A typical text requires the driver to take their eyes off the road for at least 5 seconds — if they're going 55 mph, that means driving the length of a football field without looking.
Teens are at greater risk than adults: 82% own cell phones; 52% admit to talking on those phones while driving; and 34% admit to texting.
Yet, they don't recognize the dangers: 77% are "somewhat confident" that they can text and drive; in fact, 55% say "it's easy."
Despite my elevated anxiety level, I'm not as concerned about my daughter making a mistake now. Her license is still fairly new and she isn't on "automatic pilot" yet. She doesn't drive too often or too far yet. And she still pays at least some attention to the rules we make. I worry more about the future, when driving is old hat.
Because I understand, first hand, that the siren's song of the cell phone doesn't just lure teenagers.
Last week, I had a client meeting in a town about 45 minutes from my office. As per usual (go ahead and nod, fellow moms), I was running a touch later than I had hoped because I was trying to do too many things in too little time. As I pulled out and up the street, I realized that my cell phone was still charging next to my desk.
UGH!
It was tempting to turn around, but I wasn't sure I had the minutes to spare. So, I continued ... without it. That's right, I knowingly moved ahead and faced a 2-hour meeting plus a 45-minute drive each way, sans mobile device. OMG.
I can laugh about it now, but I felt like an amputee. What if someone needed me? What if I missed something? What if I actually arrived at the client's office early?
I see it with my daughter and her friends. But, I see it in myself and my friends too. Texting means we have something to do every single solitary moment.
But, that doesn't mean we're living in the moment. And, as I will continue to remind my daughter again and again, if you choose the wrong time to text, you may not be living at all.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
