Well, we know where we’re goin’; But we don’t know where we’ve been
And we know what we’re knowin’; But we can’t say what we’ve seen
And we’re not little children; And we know what we want
And the future is certain; Give us time to work it out
Road to Nowhere – Talking Heads
My father taught me to drive in the green Chevrolet Impala.
Teaching me took my father’s settled disposition to something a bit more unstable. Practice began congenially and, after a few quick braking events and wide turns in the high school football field parking lot, tension filled the car like smoke. Parallel parking was my father’s nightmare.
Arriving home generally ended with slamming car doors and stiff silence. I wonder if Dad’s patience eroded by the time I, the fifth child needed instruction. I didn’t pass my first go around.
When the time came to teach our children to drive, I handed the first lessons off to their dad. Seeing me press my foot into the car floor was not helpful for the new driver. Sadly, the state wanted better trained drivers than it had been getting now requiring hundreds of thousands of hours of practice before taking the test. I suspect this was for the benefit of others on the road. It certainly wasn’t for the sanity of the parents spending more time in the passenger seat.
As I our youngest drove home with both parents in the car, I realized why I was not the preferred teacher. Dad in the passenger seat looking at his phone. Not the road. His phone. He didn’t worry about every upcoming curve. He didn’t grab the door when the car drifted to the center line. To the other lane where other cars were coming from the opposite direction. He didn’t gasp at an abrupt stop. Given what he believed enough practice, Dad just let them drive. Let them learn. And, always coming home amazed at what a great driver this child was.
I, however, would be holding my breath and monitoring every movement of objects, animals, cars, pedestrians on the side, in front and behind. I was their protector and shield. I looked up accident statistics to know the deadliest highways. I can’t help but notice the crosses commemorating those who died right there along the county roads surrounding our neighborhood. How else would they possibly live to get a license? Live long enough to drive by themselves? Continue to live while driving by themselves?
What a relief when the test was finally passed.
Except now I had a new way to worry. Now, they were on the road without me. Who would see the deer that ran out of the trees as daylight dimmed? Or monitor for drunk drivers or those looking at their phones heading right into the little blue Honda that carried my child.
Of the making of worry there is no end.
I realize now I need to learn how to drive on my own. I need to adjust to curves and quick stops. Watch for squirrels that run out in front of me. Know I am capable. I can get from point A to point B and even take in the beautiful scenery along the way.
I can also be the one who sits next to the driver and look down at my phone, trusting we will get there safely. I don’t need to know the destination. I don’t have to control the car and the world around the car. I can settle in for the ride.
I don’t want to emerge from these learning moments with slamming doors and frustrated emotions. I want this to be my time to enjoy the emptiness of the parking lot and the lovely drive through the countryside.
I want to hear myself say, “Boy, you’re a great driver!” And know I really am.