THE TEENAGED DRIVER

Now that my son has had two lessons (classroom only), he has become an expert on driving. When I'm behind the wheel, he grades me.
I believe his own words last night, I actually failed according to him.

I remember numerous occasions when he used to think I was a good driver. He used to say, "someday I hope I drive just like you, mom". He was probably two.

So far I have been the only brave person in our immediate family. My husband let him drive a few times, but the day he drove on the wrong side of the road for about a quarter of a mile because he was making a left-hand turn was the last time they shared that experience.

My father let him drive once. When my father said turn here, my son did, then slammed on the brakes. My father grabbed the dash, then the wheel and pointed to the curb. My son pulled over and my father drove from there.

Somehow I wonder how parents and grandparents live through it. Memories flooded my memory of my own dear grandmother. I don't remember how I convinced her to ride with me.

My father insisted I learn to drive his old pick-up truck with a three-speed transmission. My mother climbed in the front seat with me at the wheel. My grandmother sat in the bed of the truck. Since I was only fifteen at the time I couldn't drive on the road. I drove back through the fields. Grandma held on as best she could.
Maybe that one memory is why my mother is deaf when my kids say, "Hey grandma, you wanna' go for a ride"?