There’s nothing like a
good road trip down memory lane when you get to the intersection of “I Love
This” and “Fuck, I Hate This” and you can’t decide which way to go. And so it is that my husband and I did a little
reminiscing this past week. My
husband is Bob. I say that just in
case he gets more than one mention.
Then I don’t have to keep saying, “my husband… my husband… my husband”.
When our son, Owen, was
around five or six years old, we took him to LEGOLAND. That made us, like, “The Best Parents
In The World For A Day”. Actually,
I think it was the weekend at the nearby Four Seasons with the mini terrycloth
robes that made more of an impression.
“Fance,” is what Owen called the place upon his arrival. But it is LEGOLAND that we thought
about this week. Specifically, the
Driving School ride. Like the sign
says, “Strap on your seatbelt and put yourself in the driver's
seat in real electric cars to earn an official LEGOLAND® driver
license.” Hahahahaha. A driver license. So cute.
Owen got
into the real electric car and off he went. He was doing pretty well for a five or six year old. He stopped at the traffic lights, which
I took as a real sign of ability in the driving department. Bob and I watched
from the railings along the side.
I’m sure this is how people do it at the Indy 500 or the Monaco Grand
Prix. Good job, honey!
It was midway
through the ride when Owen approached his first left turn. We yelled to him—a little
motivational support, if you will.
I remember it as something like, “…turn the wheel, turn the wheel…now,
straighten it out. Straighten it out so you don’t hit the curb…” Our
suggestions were welcomed like those from a backseat driver, only worse. He finished the turn, jumped out of the
car in the middle of the road, and ran, shouting the words, “I never want to
drive. EVER.” And how happy was I?
Our next
discussion on the subject of driving came when Owen was around twelve. We were in the grocery store parking
lot. He made the announcement from
out of nowhere. “I think I’ll wait
‘til I’m eighteen to drive,” is what he said.
“Okay.” That’s what I said. Then I called Bob. He agreed—it was one of the greatest
days of our lives.
Kids have a
way of not remembering the things they’ve said. Parents remember because we need things to recall later on,
when we have nothing better to do.
Or because… oh, forget it.
We just do. So, when Owen
was a young teenager, forgetting that he was never going to drive or not drive until he was eighteen, he decided it was time to learn how to drive a real
car. Bob thought it would be great
to teach him in a rental, at midnight, in the K Mart parking lot in
Bridgehampton. I thought so, too,
because there’d be no other cars around.
Apparently, there are a lot of people who have the same idea. I’m going
to put this scene in a movie if I write one.
Bridgehampton,
to Owen, became synonymous with driving.
By the next summer, I was willing to let him drive us—on the back
road—from my sister’s house to my cousin’s. Under strict orders NOT to get in
the car until I came out of the house, I found him backing up and turning
around in the driveway, his twelve-year-old cousin shouting instructions. That ended the driving for that
summer. I’m now wondering why he
was willing to listen to my nephew and why he did not jump out of the car like
at LEGOLAND. Kids. They must like each other more than they like adults.
And then
odd things started to occur. Owen turned
fifteen. He passed the fifteen and a half mark without any interest in getting
his learner’s permit. As a matter
of fact, he didn’t care about driving in the K Mart lot or on the back roads that
next summer. His sixteenth
birthday came and went. He could
have had a permit and a license by then. The shift only took place as more and more of
his friends started to drive. The
first two or three didn’t faze him.
One day
over the break from school last winter, Owen announced that he had finished his
online driver’s education course and had booked an appointment for his permit
test. He took it and passed. I
booked some of the required behind the wheel lessons and he took over booking
the rest of them. He drove and
drove and drove some more. And he took care of the arrangements for his
behind-the-wheel driving test for last week. I know he would have made it for
the day he was eligible to take it, but there was no availability until a week
later. It appeared to be the
longest week of his life.
Leading up
to the day of his test, we did a lot of things together, all at Owen’s
request. I would ask if he wanted
to bring a friend. He said no. I think it was exactly like when kids
are little and start to separate, only to come running back. It was exactly
like that.
So, last
Friday, the boy who jumped out of the car at LEGOLAND got his driver’s license. And, like I
said at the beginning, it’s completely great and completely, fucking not great
all at once. I have more time for
me but I don’t like it yet. I
slept until eleven o’clock this morning and almost climbed back into bed at
three this afternoon. This is
ridiculous, though, I have things to do.
Like rob a bank to pay for the additional auto insurance. But at least I know who can drive the
getaway car.
