Your Child Might Not Be the Next Mario Andretti if...

**This article was first published in the American Mothers Inc. blog in August of 2014. Enjoy! -G**

After 15 years and countless hours spent taxiing my son to and from school, hockey practice, study groups and more social events than Prince William, I admit to being more excited than he was to become eligible to get his learner’s permit.

When Kyle can drive himself, I daydreamed, I might have hours of actual "free time" with which to do stuff that doesn’t involve seatbelts and stop lights! Cool stuff, like mastering jiu jitsu, crocheting stuff, and ridding Washington DC of corruption!  Well, maybe not the latter, but the anticipation of replacing a carload of smelly hockey gear with pretty yarn things inspired me to offer a driving lesson that very day.  “Meh,” the boy shrugged.

Whaaa???  Why wasn’t Kyle chomping at the bit, pestering me for the keys?  Didn’t every teenage boy dream of cruising solo down the road blaring awful dubstep remixes with enough bass to give you a nosebleed?  Apparently, my child was content to play games on his phone in the back seat, earbuds firmly in place (so as to more easily ignore the Carpool Girls), and leave the responsibility of Getting There to mom.  Well, I was determined this teenager must learn to drive soon, if I wanted any hope of tapping out Chuck Liddell or crocheting something any time this decade. 

Somehow, my efforts to get my son interested in driving failed: Hours of telepathically beaming Kyle images of himself sliding into the driver’s seat did not get my son behind the wheel.  Super fun-sounding enticements like “See more friends, more often!” and “Go wherever you want, whenever you want (within reason)!” were met with indifference.  Even shouting “Driving is FREEDOM!” like William Wallace in Braveheart failed to produce the desired response.  Until one day…

We were idling in the school pickup zone, again waiting for the always-running-late-singing-annoying-Justin Bieber-songs-followed-by-nonstop-chatter Carpool Girls.  I focused my Mom powers and sighed at my son in the rearview mirror, “If only you could drive yourself, you wouldn’t have to be in The Carpool.”  

One hour later:  Despite the fact that my son’s heretofore “driving experience” consisted of ramming carnival bumper cars and beating Level 7 of The Simpsons Hit & Run Xbox game, his first lesson was happily devoid of insurance claims.  Yes, there was enough rapid-fire brake pedal stomping to wear out a dashboard hula girl, but I only had to grab the steering wheel twice, I yelled only once, Kyle didn’t crash into anything, and, impressively, I didn’t even swear.  We both consider that a success.