Driven to Fears

Yesterday, my teenage daughter left the house at noon and climbed into a car with two young men. This might raise the eyebrows of most moms, but in my case it also raised my blood pressure. Significantly.

My daughter was going for a driving lesson.

Not just any lesson, mind you, but a two-hour trip to a major highway a few towns away. This learning to drive thing is taking years off my life!

Granted, she has already passed her permit test. She has already sat through thirty hours (thirty hours!) of driver's education. She's had six hours of professional instruction (plus three in the backseat "observing" other students). And, seemingly countless informal practice sessions with her father and her aunt. My daughter is bright and capable, careful and sober. In fact, one teacher told her she did the best rotary he'd ever seen, and another that she was a "parallel parking pro."

So why am I a basket case?

First, I'd like to blame my upbringing. Growing up in midtown Manhattan, I was rarely in a car, much less behind the wheel. This was the norm, not the exception. I don't know of a single classmate who graduated high school with a license in her wallet. Many of my hometown friends still don't drive. For myself, it wasn't until I moved from my Back Bay apartment to a Boston suburb (at the age of 28) that I finally learned.

Today, I consider driving a necessary evil. Give me a public transportation system any day. (All right, maybe a Zip Car on the weekend.)

Not so, my daughter. Growing up outside of a city, she has been looking forward to saying "hello" to her license and "bye-bye" to her lovin' mother. In March, once she (assumedly) passes her road test, she'll be taking herself to and from the stable five times a week. I won't know what to do with all that extra time. Of course, technically, I won't be able to do anything because I'll be paralyzed with fear until she returns.

Another reason I'm so nervous is that about two weeks before my daughter passed her permit test, I was in an accident. Nothing major, but enough to rattle my nerves. A woman in a humongous (or so it certainly seemed that morning) SUV ran a red light and blindsided me at a busy intersection. I wasn't hurt, but she did manage to rack up over a thousand dollars in damage to the front end of my car. I found myself a much more timid driver for a couple of months afterwards. This can't have helped as I pictured my girl behind the wheel.

I've only driven with her twice. The first time, it was just the couple of miles from her grandmother's house to ours. I almost had a heart attack — seriously. The longest ten minutes ever recorded, let me tell you. The second time was a couple of months later. We were heading down to New York City for New Year's. My husband pulled over at a rest area on the Mass Pike (THE MASS PIKE!!!!!!!) and let her drive the twenty miles or so to the next rest area.

Where was I through all this? Curled up in the backseat with my iPhone earbuds in, listening to music, eyes closed, with a pillow over my head, and praying to God, Buddha, Yahwe, Allah ... pretty much anyone who would listen. 

When we finally pulled off the highway (did I mention it was THE MASS PIKE?????), I sheepishly congratulated her. "I'm really proud of you," I told her, breathing deeply to quell my hyperventilation. "It's not you," I shrugged. "It's me."

But, that's the thing. I've come to realize it isn't just me. Despite an urban upbringing and the recent fender bender, it isn't just me. Every mother with whom I've compared notes (and there've been several) went through — or is going through — exactly the same reaction. Younger moms. Older moms. Calm, cool, collected moms. Moms who have picked up their daughters' front teeth off a skating rink floor, popped them in milk and driven them (teeth and daughter) to the ER.

Here's what I hear most often ... "Oh, I can't drive with her. I let her father do it." Hallelujah! I'm not alone. This anxiety is clearly bigger than I am.

Somehow the idea of our babies (yes, sorry honey, you will always be my baby) driving runs counter to everything we know, believe and hold dear. Before they even leave our wombs, it's our job to keep them safe. How can we do our job when they get behind the wheel and drive away?

"Will you ever drive with me?" my daughter sulks.

"Yes," I tell her. "Soon." Well, someday.

Maybe we aren't just practicing for her real driver's license. Maybe we're practicing for her real life.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Lyrics, Only Teenage Lyrics

Several times a week, I drive my teenage daughter to and from the stable where we board her horse. At this point, with the permission (and permit) of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, plus several hours of professional instruction under her skinny little belt, she could actually do the driving. 

Except she can't. Because I'll have a heart attack. And then where would we be?

I could write an entire post — multiple posts, really — about the sheer and almost illogical terror I'm experiencing when the fruit of my womb is behind the wheel of my car. And, I'm sure I will. 

But, not now.

Right now, I want to talk about another rite of teenage passage. Song lyrics, those anthems of angst that define today's adolescents just as they did when you and I were sixteen.

You see, on one of our recent car trips, the oldies station (yes, I'm an oldie, I admit it) was playing The Who. I was singing along without much thought, when I realized how silly I (not to mention Roger Daltrey) sounded:

Don't cry
Don't raise your eye
It's only teenage wasteland

I'm nearly 52. (Holy crap.) Daltrey is nearly 70. (HOLY CRAP.) Meanwhile, the only teenager in the picture was quietly texting in her seat, ignoring  her mother, ignoring the ancient rockstar, ignoring all that teen trauma from long, long ago.

I wasn't a huge Who fan (although I did see the Tommy movie a couple, well several, okay about a hundred times). My teen years were all about Elton John:

I'll be a teenage idol, just give me a break
I'm gonna be a teenage  idol, no matter how long it takes
You can't imagine what it means to me
I'm gonna grab myself a place in history
A teenage idol, that's what I'm gonna be


And Meatloaf:

Ain't no doubt about it
Baby got to go out and shout it
Ain't no doubt about it
We were doubly blessed
'Cause we were barely seventeen
And we were barely dressed

Of course, my daughter and her friends have their own musician gods and their own anthems of angst. Today's pop music includes countless songs about the trials and tribulations (and torture) of being a teen, about first love, about partying. For example, "Up All Night" by One Direction, "Teenage Dream" by Katy Perry, "We Are Young," by Fun.

Or anything at all by Taylor Swift.

My daughter's musical tastes run more toward small, indie groups. She and her BFFs go to a concert every month or so (long nights of fun for them; long nights, period, for the parents). "Their" bands often open for better known acts. On more than one occasion, they've gotten to meet them, take selfies, snag a broken, autographed drumstick. 

Good times.

Every generation has its own soundtrack. And, every decade produces an extensive catalog of teen music. Years from now (years and years and years from now), my daughter will probably find herself driving her own teenager somewhere. A song will come on and — miraculously, musically — the years will peel away. She'll feel sixteen again, like I did a couple of days ago.

And the generation gap will never feel wider.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Driven to Distraction

Earlier this summer (much earlier this summer), we received a postcard for the "New Driver" at our address. It promoted a local driving school where "eligible students 15 3/4 years old" could enroll for the state mandated 30 hours of classroom instruction prior to getting a junior operator's license. In addition, this rather crowded card promised a 2-hour parents' class, 12 hours of road instruction and 6 hours of observation.

Is your head spinning? Mine was.

When we received the card, I checked the date. My daughter was 15 3/4 that very day. 

Impressive target marketing.

We live in a small town up the coast from Boston. There are beaches, shops, frozen yogurt and pizza within walking distance. But my daughter has to bum a ride for anything farther away: her stable, the mall, her stable, the cineplex, her stable ... you get the idea. Of course, she's eager for the autonomy a license promises.

Meanwhile, I promised to call the driving school and set her up. But, between events both happy (a riding clinic in Vermont, a visitor from Spain) and very sad (a beloved grandparent passing away), here we are with the summer almost over and no closer to her license.

Massachusetts has strict guidelines about driver education. This is a very good thing (even if it's making my life more complicated right now). Still, I'm a little unclear on what the 2-hour parents' test is all about. Hello? I've been driving for 23 years. (Yes, for those of you who bother to do the math, I didn't get a driver's license until I was 28. Three words: New York City.)

My daughter can take the test for her learner's permit on her 16th birthday — although she's quick to point out that the universe is terribly unfair; her birthday falls on a Sunday so she'll have to wait an entire extra day. Then we have six months for her to learn how to operate a 4,000 pound piece of machinery, and negotiate an obsolete highway system filled with stupid at best (maniacal at worst) road warriors. 

And that's not the half of it.

The biggest challenge will be to impress upon her that her cell phone and texts and Instagram and Vine and FaceTime and Skype and ... and .. and ... have to take a back seat now. Literally. We're already talking about strategies.

She came up with the idea of locking her phone in the glove compartment. Great! (I'm not being sarcastic, for a change; I really think this is great.) But, she plans to leave the volume on so she can hear when she gets a new message or a voicemail. Then, she asserts, she'll pull over and check. Not so great. I don't like the idea of my tiny teen pulling over every five minutes. Not only does this seem less than safe, but at the rate she gets texts she'll never reach her destination! So, we're still discussing this. And, I won't hesitate to pull rank.

At least she seems to understand the inherent danger of staying connected while in motion.

I also worry about the bad habits she may have picked up from her loving mother. Anticipating my baby behind the wheel, it seems to me that the most important thing you can do to stay safe driving is to focus. Focus on your driving, your vehicle, the road, other drivers. This is easier said than done.

Here's what my daughter has seen me do behind the wheel:

- Apply makeup (yes, really, I'm sorry)
- Drink coffee
- Eat a bagel or a muffin or a Zone bar

- Search for a specific CD

- Search for change that fell between the seat and the center console
- Fish printed directions out of my briefcase
- Read said printed directions
- Make phone calls
- Get phone calls
- Participate in conference calls
- Lead conference calls
- Listen to voicemail
- Read text and Facebook messages — but only at red lights, I promise

Fear not. With my daughter's license looming, I am already changing my wicked ways. Funny how much easier it is to break bad habits for the sake of someone else's safety. Especially when that someone is still your baby.

I guess I need that parents' class after all.

Top Down, Radio On

We have a little ritual in our house when the mail comes. My teenage daughter makes a detour from wherever she was headed and optimistically asks, "Anything for me?"

Other than tack catalogues from horse supply companies, the answer is usually "No."

I blame it on texting and Facebook. Being an analog girl myself, I try to explain that she would probably get more cards and letters and packages if she actually sent more (as in, any) cards and letters and packages. This argument is met with a blank stare. As are so many others. But, I digress.

This weekend, the mail arrived and, lo and behold, there was something that wasn't meant for me or my husband. It was hand addressed to "New Driver." So, not only was the teen pleased to have received mail, she was particularly excited because the greater world — by way of the USPS — was acknowledging a pending milestone. 

In September, my daughter will be 16.

Apparently, this is not news to the local driving school that had reached out to her. ("Full RMV certified Drivers education program" "FREE PARENT CLASS" "We take you from start to finish with door to door pick up!" "READY SET GO!") In delightfully punctuation-free copy, they stipulate "Must be 15 and 3/4s" and "Looking forward to meeting you :)" Yes, the emoticon is actually part of the printed postcard. 'Talk about knowing your audience.

Over the weekend, my daughter turned — you guessed it — "15 and 3/4s." She is very eager to start studying.

Although the postcard was certainly meant for my daughter, the title "New Driver" could apply to me too. If, that is, I was being compared to other 51-year olds. My husband was one of those people who got his license the very day (almost the very second) that he could. Me? Not so much. I got my license at 28.

In my defense, I grew up in New York City, where having a car is not only unnecessary, it's a painfully expensive pain-in-the-you-know-what. They didn't offer driver's ed at my high school, and I can't think of a single girl I graduated with who was driving when we all left for college. When I relocated as a young adult, I merely went from a large city to a small city. I traded subways for the T and remained, quite happily, license-free for several more years. It wasn't until I moved in with my boyfriend about 20 miles up the coast from Boston that I had to actually get behind the wheel of a car. Nervous at first, I soon realized that there were people on the road who were worse (way worse) drivers than I was. 

My first two cars were what my husband and I refer to as "les boits de merde." Cheap and used and barely functional. My third car, though, was new and red and shiny and had a ragtop. It was (and is) a 1991 Mazda Miata. We only use it in the summer (not exactly a smart option for icy New England roads, as I learned through trial and error), so it's still on the road and still looks fabulous. I love that car! When our daughter was little, I joked that it would be hers someday.

Guess what ... as we've just been reminded, "someday" is just 1/4 of a year away. (Note to self: do not make promises to eager toddlers unless you plan to see them through.) She has made it very clear that the original agreement is not negotiable.

Now, before you decide that my daughter is an even bigger princess than she is, please note that the car she will be getting is more than 20 years old and has more than 110,000 miles on it. She will only be driving it to and from the stable, two towns away. If and when I ever let her drive on the highway (cue major gulp here), she will have to drive one of the bigger, heavier, safer sedans.

Sorry, daughter dearest. But that is (really) not negotiable.