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.
I remember the first first day like it was ... well ... yesterday.
On the first first day, my daughter wore a red dress with a white collar and smocking at the top. She had on black patent leather Mary Janes and ankle socks with frilly trim. She had a lunchbox, a tiny backpack, and a fleece jacket with an appliqued dachshund head on one side, tail on the other, and elongated body stretching around the back. The zipper pull was a quilted bone. Her hair was perfect.
Oddly enough, I remember what I was wearing too. Black wool trousers and boots, plus a very cool sweater that was black and tan and white with asymmetrical wooden buttons and a sort of primitive fish pattern. I got it from some museum catalog and it was cooler than it sounds, really. Anyway, I don't know where it went. (Besides out of style, I suppose.) Meanwhile, my daughter's dress is carefully preserved in an attic closet waiting for some future child's first day of preschool.
I repeat, "First day of preschool." It feels like yesterday. But, at the same time, no matter how well I remember every little detail, it feels about a hundred years ago.
Sundance Preschool was in a brand new building about a mile or so from our house. It was bright and sunny with large classrooms and a playground out back. My daughter was so excited. We took about a million pictures (this was back when everything was still analog, so you had to take extra shots to make sure something came out), and the whole family (minus the dog — then again, I suppose he was represented on her jacket) drove over together.
I was just fine, happy even, imagining how my little daughter would love school the way I had. The future seemed bright and full of promise. We had years and years together ahead of us. We checked her in and went into her classroom. There were lilliputian tables and chairs, a reading corner, easels and paint, tiny cubbies ... and a coat hook with each child's name neatly printed above it.
That, my friends, is when I lost it.
My daughter would probably tell you that I've been losing it on a quite regular basis ever since.
This morning was that same daughter's first day of senior year. All I can say, truly, is ...
WTF?
How is this possible? How can she be that old? (How can I be that old?)
She woke up at 5:00 am. (Yeah, like that's going to happen again this year!) She wore her senior "We're Kind of a B16 Deal" tee and a pair of shorts. I packed a nice lunch for her and after a little (a very little) attention to hair and makeup, we took a couple of quick "First Day" pictures and she was out of here. No need for breakfast; she and her BFFs were going to IHOP after the official first day senior drive-by.
Each graduating class of our town's high school takes part in this time-honored tradition twice. (I think it's just twice; I hope it's just twice.) The junior girls drive through the town honking and screaming the morning after the prior class's graduation. And those same girls, now officially seniors, do it all again the first day back at school in September.
My husband decorated our antique red Miata with racing stripes and a big number "16" on the driver door. It was by far the flashiest vehicle out there. But, as I videotaped the convoy this morning, I was happy to notice that my daughter and her bestie stayed belted in their seats even as they raced through the town. Whether that was fear of me or of the town police, I'll never know. But, I was glad on't.
Next on the agenda is the gauntlet outside the school. Historically, the seniors have taunted the incoming underclassmen and women. This year, however, our rules-happy principal ordained that there is to be no teasing and no touching — excepting "handshakes extended in the spirit of friendship and warm welcome."
(Excuse me while I go choke to death on laughter.)
(All right, I'm back now.)
Classes for seniors don't start until mid-morning, so my offspring and her posse will have time for a nutritious breakfast at the International House of Pancakes (is there a National House of Pancakes?) before their day — and presumably their education — starts in earnest.
This morning was my daughter's last first day. She and the other seniors only have 20-minute classes along with forms to fill out and an assembly, so the day should fly by for her.
Almost as fast as the last 15 years have flown by for me.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Back in 1979, when the class ahead of me graduated, I don't remember any particular prank or tradition that marked us as the new senior class. It could be that my memory is bad (it is). Or that there was something that my classmates did to celebrate and I was too busy with my theatre company to participate. But, whether we marked the occasion or not, we certainly didn't do it the way my teenage daughter and her peers just did.
You see, none of us had a driver's license or access to a car. And besides, if we did race around the streets of New York at an ungodly early hour, honking and screaming ... let's face it ... who would notice anyway?
Suffice it to say, earlier this week, the residents of my teeny tiny town did notice. And they've been noticing as long as anyone remembers.
The senior class graduated on Sunday. And even though junior year finals are still two weeks away, my daughter and a hundred and fifty or so other young women (many of whom I've known since pre-pre-pre-kindergarten at Sundance Preschool) were very happy to take their place.
And to partake in a beloved ritual.
I always marvel at how nearly impossible it is to rouse my daughter at 6:30 am on a regular school day. ("Just five more minutes, mom." "Just three more minutes." "One more minute, please, I'm sooooooooo tired!") Yet, she has little to no trouble getting up at 5:00 am or even earlier when she has a horse show.
I can now report that the Senior Drive-By falls under the second category.
Each year, rising senior girls don their class tee shirts and meet at a local beach a good two hours before classes start. Their cars are adorned with streamers, balloons, foam and wax and water-soluble (we hope) paint, announcing that they are the Class of XXXX and they have arrived! They then tear through the community, out over the causeway past the gracious mansions on "the neck," along the water, through our olde town, in and out of drowsy residential neighborhoods. Honking horns and screaming all the way. The event ends when they finally arrive at the high school and take over the hitherto verboten senior parking spaces.
"No more side-street-behind-the-post-office for us, thank you very much!"
The police are aware of the tradition and by-and-large they tolerate it. Our students are not allowed to go into the neighboring town (and their students are not allowed to come into ours). This is because of a couple of accidents in recent years. One involved a fender bender near the beach. The girl who was driving left the scene because (a) she had too many people in her car, (b) the car was her parents', who had not given her permission to use it, and (c) she didn't have her driver's license yet.
Eeek. Bad decisions all around, wouldn't you agree?
The school was pretty much put on notice that if there were any more — shall we say — "incidents" (I would argue we should say "stupidity"), the drive-through would be outlawed, permanently, for future seniors.
My daughter asked if she could take my ancient (but still adorable) red Miata. We said "yes," provided that she only drive one other girl (the car has only two seats and consequently only two seatbelts) and that both derrieres must be firmly planted at all times. When I brought our new puppy up to watch the parade of screaming seniors, my daughter and her BFF each had a fist high in the air but true to their words, they were sitting down. I can't say the same for some of their classmates, and the police did stop the convoy twice to issue an ultimatum "No hanging out the windows or else."
My daughter is now officially in the home stretch. She's one of the Class of 2016. Some creative kid thought up their slogan: "We're kind of a B16 deal." (Get it? Big deal. B-16 deal. No? Nevermind.)
Being a senior at last was a big enough deal to get my daughter out of bed an hour early. For me, the celebrated drive-about marks the beginning of the last chapter of her childhood.
Not sure if I'll let her take the Miata to college or not. But, she'd better keep her derriere in her seat, regardless.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
