Real Drivers of the QCA

For those of you expecting Whoreticulture Friday, I’m sorry to tell you that WF and I are on a break, like Ross and Rachael. I’m sure we’ll get back together and resume our dysfunctional relationship soon.


Today, I’m writing about my kids, which I recently promised myself I wouldn’t do anymore. I also say I’m going to exercise more and eat fewer donuts and drink less wine, but that doesn’t happen either.

Oldest Daughter recently turned 14, and instead of finding a secret boyfriend or a stash of Cosmo magazines in her room (“14 Ways to Enjoy Kinky Sex!”), I discovered rather quickly that she has been secretly studying the driver’s manual.


Things could be worse – it could be Youngest Daughter, who will surely break curfew on a regular basis and secretly date a vampire. Oldest Daughter has always been very responsible and has a healthy dose of fear of operating large equipment. I find it interesting that in our house, Current Husband is a little more afraid of her driving than I. He sees this:




On the other hand, I see a future where I’m not driving everyone around everywhere. Those nights when I’m making dinner and I find I’m out of onions? No problem, send OD! Running a little behind from work that day and might get the kids to piano late? No problem, send OD! Cello camp starts at 7 a.m.? See you later OD, I’m sleeping in! A mom can dream, no?

 CH has taken OD to practice driving before. The Hobby Lobby parking lot is the best place to go because it’s closed on Sunday, it’s big, and the only obstacles are the lampposts, which our Jetta probably can’t knock down. Probably. But CH is a little nervous about his baby driving, so he’s a little ramped-up when they get in the car. They practiced at the Hobby Lobby lot for a little bit, and then a police cruiser pulled into the lot, and CH told OD to stop because she doesn’t have her learner’s permit, but OD managed to slam on the brakes and skid out a little, and then she freaked out because she thought the po-po was coming to write her up. She got home and vowed never to practice again.

That attitude is NOT going to help me lose my Taxi Driver designation. It was time to take matters into my own hands.

Last weekend, I told OD that if she would practice with me at Hobby Lobby, I would buy her a malt at Whitey’s afterward. OD is easily bought with ice cream, and she agreed. We drove to the Hobby Lobby lot, where there were two other wanna-be’s practicing, and OD got behind the wheel. We spent the first 10 minutes practicing great-grandma driving at 5 mph and power-braking. I opened the door and pretended to throw up. OD asked what I was doing, and I said, “That’s what all of your passengers will be doing if you drive like this.” We picked up the pace a little bit, and then she hit a pothole in the parking lot. She looked at me, nervous, and I said, “Now you yell ‘Damn government! Where do my taxes go?’.” OD said it, and smiled. It felt good to get that repressed anger out. And really – where DO our taxes go?

Then the other drivers left the lot, and it was just the two of us. I told her to get in a place where she had some space to drive, and then floor it.
OD: “Floor It?”
ME: “When you put your foot down on the pedal and go fast.”
OD: “I know what it is. I don’t want to do that.”
ME: “You have to. It’s for safety.”
OD: “How is that safe?”
ME: “Don’t you watch ANY TV? Everyone is involved in a car chase eventually. This is how you will escape the terrorists. Or a bad vampire who is determined to kill you to anger your good vampire boyfriend.”
OD: “Oh. Whatever.”

We can always communicate when we speak Twilight.

Then OD let me know that she was ready for Whitey's, so we switched back. She got her seat belt on, and I turned up the radio, pulled out my cell phone and started to text, and then floored it. We’re shooting across the parking lot, Lady Gaga is yelling at us that she was just Born that Way (does anyone else hear Madonna singing “Express Yourself” when they hear that song?), I’m texting, and OD is yelling, “MOM! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?! STOP!” I stopped the car and looked at her.

ME: “Were you scared?”
OD: “OMG! YES! Why did you do that!?”
ME: “To show you why you shouldn’t text or talk on your phone and drive. Did it work?”
OD: “You could have just said it. Sheesh.” And rolled her eyes, because she is 14 and obligated to do that every time we have a conversation.

We got home, and CH asked how it was. OD indicated that it was terrifying, but fun. I imagine this is what it was like to date me in high school. 

Have a great weekend!