Teaching My Daughter How to Drive

My daughter is now driving. You’ve been warned. I shouldn’t say that. She’s actually gotten to be a very good driver – for a teenager. Although, after shelling out hundreds for a professional driving school, since it is required by our state to be professionally taught if you want a license on your seventeenth birthday, Emma’s driving ability was no better than before her lessons – in fact it was nonexistent. So, I made sure she would learn to drive. After all, there’s no way I’d ever let her get behind the wheel of a car if I didn’t feel comfortable with her driving skills.

“How on earth did that driving school let you get your learner’s permit?” I said after two minutes of driving with her. She had just run into a stop sign on the corner of our street.

“Don’t yell at me!” she barked. “I don’t know. I told you the guy was a rotten teacher and he made me a nervous wreck. Plus he smelled like hard-boiled eggs. The entire situation was unbearable.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Just be calm and we will start all over. I will teach you how to drive.

Day One –With Emma behind the wheel, I go over the instrument panel. I am soundly scolded for thinking that she doesn’t know what all the dials and colored lights mean. I suggest that she makes sure she’s comfortable in the driver’s seat – to adjust the mirrors and to always buckle up. I am soundly scolded for thinking that she doesn’t know how to sit in a car.

I have her start the car and back out of our driveway. She cuts the turn too sharply and the right front tire tears up a corner of the front lawn. I tell her not to cut the turn so hard and to be careful. I am soundly scolded for getting excited and raising my voice.

After three attempts to put the car in drive (she has a problem settling the shift in the drive position) she finally succeeds and begins to pull up the street. Her cell phone goes off. She slams on the brakes, releases her seatbelt and digs in the pocket of her painted-on jeans. She reads the text and returns one. I ask her what it is she’s doing. She looks at me as if I were an escaped mental patient. She tells me it’s okay because she stopped the car.

Now, it’s my turn. I soundly scold her for her indiscretions and stick her cell phone in the glove compartment, an action that elicits vociferous complaints. She turns the key in the ignition even though the car is running. The poor car caterwauls. Startled, Emma pops up in her seat, releasing the key. I tell her that the car was already running. She says that she knew that, but I get her nervous.

I tell her to try again. We are at the corner of our street so quickly I feel as though we must have been transported through time. I look out the rear window to see remnants of a vapor trail. While I’m catching my breath, Emma tells me that she has to get used to the gas pedal.

We are at a stop sign – one that she hasn’t hit yet. She makes a right turn. Another car is approaching us and Emma stops. I ask her what she’s doing. She’s afraid she’s going to hit him. I tell her to pull closer to the right. She says there are cars parked there. We go back and forth about this for a while until the guy in the other car starts beeping and yelling out his window at us. Finally, Emma squints her eyes, inhales and drives through. She shoves her hand out the window and I can only believe it’s to flip the guy off. I tell her never to do that again. She says that she was only checking for rain.

I suggest we go to a parking lot where she can drive around and get used to actually controlling the car. Begrudgingly, Emma agrees. I ask her if she wants me to drive the few blocks to a church parking lot that is perfect for practice driving. She tells me that she can do it. I discreetly pray.

It takes us twenty minutes to reach the lot going three miles an hour. I tell Emma to just drive around the lot, to make turns, drive in reverse, pull into parking spaces. There is only one car in the lot. After fifteen minutes or so of driving around, during which time Emma actually seems to gain more confidence, she asks if she could attempt to park next to the parked car. I tell her to do it carefully. As she nears the car, her phone starts laughing from the glove compartment. (She’s downloaded the strangest cell phone rings.) She looks at the glove compartment, then at me. I shout something unintelligible and turn the wheel away from the parked car.

We get lucky. Only, our side view mirrors hit leaving scratches on both mirrors. I find the owner of the car in the church and bring him out to see his car. The reverend chuckles and asks how that could have happened with his being the only car in the lot. He tells us not to worry about it. We thank him and drive off with me behind the wheel and Emma, between tears, fretting that she’ll never be able to drive. I tell her not to worry, that I have a plan.

Day Two – I get my wife to teach our daughter how to drive.