SNAPSHOTS
By: Nancy Z. Paul
Of all the trials and tribulations of parenthood, teaching your kid how to drive ranks way up there with giving birth itself. One gets through it somehow, but it’s no walk in the park.
Mere moments after my 16-year-old son receives his driving permit, I find myself getting into the passenger side of the car. Although I have banned listening to the radio for our inaugural attempts at navigating around Princeton, I hear a worried voice advising: "Take a few deep breaths, say a prayer and hope for the best, ’cause you’re in for it."
Outwardly, my voice is calm as I ask my son to adjust the mirrors. I then attempt to talk us out of the garage. After several tries we see the light of day and enjoy the view from the driveway. While we haven’t conquered a mountain top, it feels like an achievement. I’m ready to call it a day, but the Student Driver wants to go further.
We next head down our street, which fortunately has a cul-de-sac allowing no chance to really engage in traffic. My kind of driving! My dear father taught me to drive on the quietest street in Philadelphia and I am determined to continue the tradition. Nothing dangerous could happen here.
As my son carefully passes our neighbors’ homes, I have a knot in my throat, realizing that one day soon my son will be able to go off into the world without needing me to get him there (except to provide the car and pay for the gas and insurance).
After going around our street seven times (for good luck), my son wants to actually make a right turn into traffic. It had to happen sooner or later. I grip the door handle tightly as we merge onto Clarkesville Road a fairly busy thoroughfare. I begin to sweat. We find ourselves behind a cement mixer.
I have a flashback to when my son was a little boy and loved to play with his toy cement mixer. In those days, whenever we’d be lucky enough to spot one on the road, his eyes would grow big and there would be squeals of joy from the backseat. Now he sits beside me, hands in the 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock positions, talking about colleges he would like to visit in the spring.
When the cement mixer turns off we have the road to ourselves for about a nanosecond. We become concerned about a new vehicle on the road. The Cadillac in front of us is swerving ever so slightly and going well below the speed limit. There does not appear to be a driver. As we get closer, we observe an elderly lady gingerly making her way, while attempting to adjust the radio.
I can’t believe this, but I actually recommend that my son speed up a tiny bit and pass the dear. But before he can signal his desire, a Porsche speeds into view with music blaring and tires screeching. I feel gray hairs sprouting. I have an urge to tear my hair out as a distraction.
And then I know what I must do. It’s time to head back home and recruit my husband for Driving Duty. As he hasn’t much hair left and what is left, is mostly gray, he would do just fine.
I compliment my son on how well he did and make myself a cup of chamomile tea. When my husband comes home, I tell him the good news. He says he is looking forward to driving around with his son but then again, he has never experienced labor. They head out the next day for some driving practice, a big smile on each of their faces.
Thirty minutes go by and I wonder how my husband is holding up. Ten minutes later, I find out. The only way to describe my husband’s face is to say that Edvard Munch’s most famous work, "The Scream," comes to mind. Moreover, his hair seems sparser on top; my husband went from balding to practically bald in a mere 40 minutes. My son, on the other hand, appears quite carefree, saying that the driver’s test would be a piece of cake.
Over a cup of herbal tea, my husband shares his experience with me: "The problem was I didn’t have a second brake. A second brake would have made all the difference. The kid’s got a brake and doesn’t know when to use it. To remain unruffled, I tried to channel Dr. Andrew Weil’s anti-anxiety pant, but couldn’t quite manage it. The boy, thinking that I was having some kind of medical episode, pulled over quickly, narrowly missing Annette’s prize-winning roses."
Apparently, my husband was reluctant to stray too far from our neighborhood, as well.
By the end of the week, the new driver informs us that we could use a refresher course in driving. He feels that I don’t stop long enough at stop signs and that his father takes curves too fast. He’s concerned that I would rather walk two miles to my destination than attempt to parallel park. But he tells us not to fret, saying that he’d be happy to give us a few pointers.
There go my husband’s five remaining hairs.
I now know why my own father was bald by the time he was 50.
Nancy Z. Paul of West Windsor is a freelance writer.

