A License to Drive (your mother crazy) Part I

     Sometimes it feels as though you spend your whole life waiting to turn sixteen.  To call it a milestone is an exercise in understatement and irony.  Naturally, the Mosiman family refuses to follow the “Leave it to Beaver” or “Brady Bunch” script.  Our improvisational Sweet Sixteen skit looks more like “Rocky Horror” than “Happy Days.”  When our eldest daughter, Savannah, turned sixteen two years ago, I never imagined that she would undergo an ideological, theological, and philosophical transformation regarding the Holy Grail of that age:  the acquisition of the long-sought-after, most-coveted driver’s license.  Savannah suddenly displayed the utmost admiration for the Amish’s timeless mode of transportation.  Her favorite movie became “Driving Miss Daisy.”  She even began avoiding the bumper cars at the amusement park.  As wise parents, we gave her some space to adjust to the idea of getting a permit.  After awhile though, we began employing the time-honored methods of encouragement found in any respectable parent’s arsenal:  we coaxed, bribed, threatened, and mocked.  “I don’t care WHAT all the other kids are doing,” she replied loftily, “Furthermore, are you aware of the rising cost of gasoline?  Not to mention car insurance?  It is much more cost effective to remain a passenger.” 

            Fortunately, very few witnesses were present to watch me drag my stunned and screaming daughter across the parking lot (I positioned my truck next to Ace Hardware to lull her into a sense of tranquility, shattered almost immediately as I began herding her towards the Wyoming County DMV).  Her vocabulary is much more loquacious than I had been aware up to this point.  As the Department of Motor Vehicles does not sport restraints on their chairs, I physically barred the door with my body while victoriously pulling our number (which by the way, is now in her baby book).  To my delight, a fellow classmate of Savannah’s was in the painful process of taking his permit test, gritting his teeth, murmuring words or perhaps ritualistic chants, and gnawing at the end of his pencil while answering important drive-related questions as: Assuming that the humidity levels are approximately 80%, the winds are coming from the east at 7 miles per hour, and road surface conditions are dry, when approaching an intersection geometrically comprised of right-angles which is not determined by New York State authorized traffic signs at the same time as another driver, to whom is the right of way presented?  We watched as this young man was presented with his hard-earned driver’s permit and I sat with unrestrained pride as my own daughter answered impossible-to-comprehend questions to also receive her own right-to-the-road.  This, after she argued with the very patient DMV employee who, up until that point, thought I was the most heartless mother on the planet.  When Savannah insisted that the answer she’d supposedly missed was an outlier, the DMV service personnel quickly changed alliances and began finding me much funnier than when I first attempted to woo her with my witticism. 

            As we exited the Department of Motor Vehicles, I was so excited by my victory that I was momentarily lulled into a false sense of complacency.  I realized, belatedly, that my choice of parking spots may have been foolhardy as Savannah abruptly sprinted off.  Knowing that there was no way I could overtake her, I trudged across the pavement, opened the driver’s side door, gripped the steering wheel in frustration, and headed towards the exit.  “Where to, Miss Daisy?” I growled to my grinning daughter.

as published in Warsaw's Country Courier

http://www.mywnynews.com/arcade_warsaw/