I let my 17-year-old son Vernon drive our children to school on a regular basis.Crazy, isn’t it? I load the kids into his truck, buckle them in and then have a nervous breakdown as they back out of the driveway.
Although I fear for their safety, I console myself with the hope that Vernon keeps his hands on ten and two, focuses on the road and would never, even once ever, take his eyes off traffic to adjust the radio or check his hair.
Too well I remember the days of my youth when I prided myself on being an expeditious driver. I was fast, I was rebellious, and although my father once fell to his knees at our destination and kissed the ground in gratitude, I know that I was a darn good motorist. And now that I look back, I don’t think that I’ve aged a bit.
Therefore, I felt our children should have been joyful I was the one who was driving them to school the other morning, not their older brother.
Even though we were running behind schedule, I felt quite confident that I could get my kids to school on time. I put on my glasses, stepped into my slippers and prepared a fresh cup of coffee for the drive. Meanwhile, my boys scurried about grabbing books, stray shoes and memo pads.
In the midst of the chaos, questions filled the air, “Where’s my stuff?”
“Are we going to be late?”
And, “For the love of all that is sane, Mother, you’re not going to wear that outfit are you?”
“Yeah,” another one exclaimed, “Vernon always looks cool when he drives us to school.”
The boys seemed embarrassed and appalled that I would be their driver for the day. But I didn’t let them dissuade me. I took a view of the world between the dash and the steering wheel. I then turned the thermostat up and the radio down, dropped the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway.
“You kids sit tight,” I said as I progressed into my two-point turn, “cuz Mama’s going for a drive and you, my fine young men, are going for a ride.”
“C’mon, Mom,” one of the boys exclaimed with the intent to suck the fun out of the moment, “we only have eight minutes to get there and you’re going to have to drive fast.”
“Yeah,” interjected another, “Vernon can get us there in six minutes flat.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” I said as I patted the dash on the family sedan. “This baby and I can move like the speed of light.”
Then I turned on my blinker, cracked my neck and merged into traffic without missing a beat.
“What are you doing?” one of the boys asked once we were under way.
“I’m driving.”
“That’s not driving. We’re barely moving!”
“I’m doing the speed limit,” I said in my defense.
“Well, Vernon never does the speed limit!”
“Yeah,” said another son. “The cars never pile up behind us when Vernon drives!”
“They’re piling up because it’s a busy time of day.”
“Then can you explain why there’s no one in front of us?”
Isn’t that just like kids? You birth them, you educate them and the little ingrates criticize you.
As I drove down the street – taking care to make sure that my charges arrived at their destination without incident – my boys were nervously looking around as if they were stranded in the slow lane and the opportunities of life were passing them by.
“Do you know what those people behind us are saying?” asked my all-knowing 14-year-old.
“Probably,” I responded, “that the world is full of nuts and that they’re grateful that someone is driving at a safe speed for once.”
“No, they’re all saying that they hate it when they get stuck behind someone who has nowhere to go! Can’t you step on the gas?”
“I am stepping on the gas.”
“But you’re driving like a grandma on a Sunday!”
“Yeah,” echoed another brother. “Vernon never drives like a grandma on a Sunday.”
I made a mental note to have a serious talk with Vernon about his driving, and slowly rounded the last corner and safely crept up to the front of the school. Once I made a complete stop, the doors of the car flew open.
As I sat there blowing kisses and calling out, “Have a good day and make good choices!” the kids got out of the car, ran to the grass, dropped to their knees and kissed the ground.
I haven’t aged a bit.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.