A Slightly Sour Sweet Sixteen

As birthdays go, sixteen is a much-anticipated milestone.  Don’t get me wrong, being able to legally buy scratch-offs at age eighteen is a thrill but nothing trumps being handed the keys to the kingdom.  My daughter Sydney recently turned sixteen and, as usual, we pulled out all the stops to celebrate.  She began her special day with a batch of buttered birthday toast.  I meticulously planned her mid-day meal of a Lunchable and mini grape soda pop.  To prevent the debacle that inevitably accompanies any important outing of which I participate, her father picked the birthday girl up immediately after school to take her to the Department of Motor Vehicles.  Sydney had been practicing up by taking the DMV’s online quizzes.  She was surprised to learn that under no circumstances is a driver to cross the double yellow line.  “What if your driveway is on the opposite side of the road?” she asked. 

As father and daughter left, I suddenly had a premonition as I remembered my last trip of this kind to the DMV.  I quickly scanned their helpful and informative website to discover that the social security card is a must-have document.  “You just realized this,” older daughter, Savannah asked incredulously, “we went through this less than two years ago.”  She is still holding a grudge from how I screwed up her own attainment of a driver’s license.  To the great annoyance of my husband, who thought I had my act together (c’mon folks, shouldn’t he know better by know?), I waylaid the trip to Warsaw with a carefully-worded cell phone call.  I then talked them through the search for the needed document.  I can’t explain how to play Crazy 8’s to eleven- year-olds so you can imagine how well that went.  I drove home to make the search myself and naturally found it in the last possible place. 

Brad and Sydney again hit the road.  Unfortunately, the documentation delay resulted in their arriving too late for Sydney to take her permit test.  “Let me buy you a Frappe,” Brad said to our disappointed daughter and off they went to McDonald’s to discover an out-of-order drink machine.  “Well, don’t forget you’ll be having homemade ice cream tonight,” he said consolingly. 

Yeah…about that.  Made the mixture, packed it in ice and salt, turned on the motor and listened to the most horrific grinding sound ever.  I employ the same diagnostic procedure across-the-board to all scary or unusual noises.  I ignore them.  Brad, however, felt compelled to directly address the issue.  Dismantling.  Adjusting.  Fiddling.  He reattached the apparatus and plugged it in.  It now sounded like a dropped transmission.  “It’s fine,” I said optimistically, now actively ignoring the slender spiral of smoke rising from our ice cream machine.  Suddenly a new sound filled the air.  No, not the smoke detector.  If only we were so lucky.  Our new puppy, who voraciously and enthusiastically consumes shoe laces, fabric softener sheets and coffee table legs, chose this exact moment to empty her stomach.  Entering the kitchen, Sydney said, “Mom, Juno threw up.”  My sixteen-year-old stood by silently as she watched her parents battle flames in order to rescue the ice cream mixture, our home, and our very lives (in that order) before she grabbed the paper towels and disappeared back into the other room.  With the clever application of a monkey wrench, Brad hand-cranked the ice cream in the manner of our forefathers and forty-five minutes later, we ate our homemade cajun peach ice cream.  Sydney had, by this time, inexplicably lost her appetite and was more than happy to just go to bed.  Sweet dreams, Sweet Sixteen. 

 as published in Warsaw's Country Courier

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

A License to Drive (your daughter crazy) Part II

            When last we left off, Savannah had meritoriously earned her New York State driver’s permit and was eagerly anticipating the many hours of practice time required to achieve full driving status.  Naturally, the sixteen-year-old was enthusiastic about learning to master the intricacies of the standard transmission; so much so, in fact, that her death grip on the stick shift resulted in the decapitation of the ball. 

The key to the successful acquisition of knowledge is directly proportional to the consistency of teaching.  I initially began teaching Savannah to drive until, upon observing her father’s rather unconventional driving style, she inquired as to why he was stopping at the stop sign at the end of our seasonal road.  “You stop at all stop signs,” he replied firmly, watching the play of doubt cross her face.  Her fate was sealed as he watched her slide the truck into neutral approaching another one of those pesky stop signs.  “Why aren’t you downshifting,” he inquired.  “Down…what,” she questioned before taking her father on as her full-time driving instructor, leaving me unceremoniously in the dust.

I was, however, given the honor of taking Savannah to her road test.  “Do you think you can handle this,” Brad asked, “I can take off work if you need me to.”  I admit I reacted a tad testily.  “It’s not rocket science, for Pete’s sake,” I snapped, “people do this every day.  I’m pretty sure I can get her to her driver’s test on time.” 

I blame the Department of Motor Vehicles.  I called multiple times to ensure that I’d dotted the T’s and crossed the I’s.  I had certificates, testimonials, recommendations, and immunity records.  Did I mention that I called more than once?  So there we are, parked in line near the Warsaw monument, watching the poor saps ahead of us jerk their vehicles awkwardly onto the road and weave unsteadily towards the school.  The brave man giving the test approached each parent prior to the test to ask something and suddenly, my heart sank into my shoes.  I bolted from our truck and raced over to him, interrupting his conversation to ask if it were necessary for me to have my license.   Incredulous, he assured me that it was customary for New York State certified drivers to always carry their licenses when operating a motor vehicle.  He glanced around, perhaps for a hidden camera, as I responded in pure panic. 

It’s one thing for my kid to fail her driver’s test herself but, by golly, I would not allow myself to be single-handedly responsible for screwing up such an important day for my daughter.  I burst into tears on the sidewalk while Savannah sank down so far on the truck seat that her knees brushed the floor.  Needless to say, the Department of Motor Vehicles hires angels.  This very nice man explained that if I could retrieve my license in the next twenty-two minutes, he would still allow Savannah to take her test that day.  I could hear Savannah’s moan of despair (or perhaps disgust) coming from the open window of our Ranger as she quickly calculated the distance from Warsaw to our house and back. Tears steaming down my face, I leaped into our truck and drove in the swiftest and most law-abiding fashion possible, obeying each stop sign, taking note of every single double line, and not using my horn at all.  I apologized to Savannah every quarter mile of that trip but for some reason, she didn’t seem at all surprised by the turn of events.  “It’s okay, Mom,” she said, clutching her seat like a baby monkey as I rounded a corner at a sedately comfortable speed. 

Long story short…she passed the test!  We didn’t know it then but that event was more than just a driver’s test.  It was, for Savannah, yet another lesson in performing under more than the usual stressful conditions.  It wasn’t enough that she had to take her test using a stick shift.  She had to take her test with a stick AND an unstable mother who somehow managed to get her daughter to the start line with two minutes to spare.  It wasn’t until two weeks ago that the real reward of that day showed itself as Savannah was working, hauling in salmon nets in Alaska when the boat she was on got stuck sideways in the shallows.  Surveying the mess, the foreman addressed his small crew.  “Who’s going to grab the tractor to get us out, “he asked.  When no one answered, he spoke again.  “Can’t any of you drive a stick?”  The lone girl on the boat slowly raised her hand.  Turns out that every day is a test and thank goodness, Savannah was more than prepared.

as published in Warsaw's Country Courier

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

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/