By the end of the week, our oldest will join the ranks of
even the great Lord Morley in becoming a licensed driver.
Our son took his written test today, and will do the skills
test Wednesday. Then sometime after that our insurance agent will contact his
RV or boat dealer (or both) and say the purchase is a go.
I don’t want to know what it’s going to cost us to insure
our son. Boys in general get a (deserved) bad rap, insurance-wise. I’m fairly
sure this will be my reaction to the insurance company’s quote.
Nevertheless, we’ll pay. My Dad paid for me for the first
little bit – and I recall myself, on my own, having to pay roughly $500 a year
for insurance on a 1976 Chevy Nova that was in the final stages of Rusting
Rigor Mortis. That would nearly double what we’re paying for insurance, and I’m
sure prices have gone up since the mid-1990s.
We have visions of him doing errand-driving for us. But
given his homework load, his impending mission, and his general desire to
remain motionless in the basement, it’s likely we’ll still have to do a lot of
driving, mainly taking his sister to ballet lessons in Rexburg – because that
burns up an evening, with the thrilling monotony of driving bookending the
repetition of the seven basic ballet movements.
I hope our son can avoid the misery of auto accidents. I was
in two of them in my formative driving years, one of them minor, the other
major in terms of damage but minor in terms of injury. I can still remember the
pattern on the shirt I was wearing for the latter one – ludicrous spoked
steering wheels from a boat, with “Anchors Aweigh” underneath them in script. I
see the pattern once in a while at the fabric store and I feel nauseous,
although as time has passed, it’s mostly because I’m in a fabric store.
I do remember this: Never heard a cross word from my parents
about it. Although I’m sure plenty were said behind my back. Yeah, that nausea
is coming back; it never really goes away, does it?
But let’s not focus on that.
Focus on his successes – and the worry that the panic we saw
in him in the kitchen this weekend when he forgot to spray the pan he was
putting the brownie mix in never kicks in while he’s driving and oh God he’s
going to get into so many wrecks . . .
But let’s not focus on that. Focus on the positive. He’s
learning. Developing skills. Problem-solving and problem-anticipating skills.
They’ll be honed over time. I mean, look at me: Knock on wood, not even a
speeding ticket in twenty years of marriage. I’ve slid off the road a few times
in winter, including one bladder-stressing moment when my truck spun right
through the only gap in a long stream of traffic on a slick road. But not a
dented fender nor a visit from a policeman. Let’s hope that keeps up, and is
our son’s future.
For I, too, am a good driver. A licensed driver. Just don’t
hand me any cigars at the gas station . . . I wouldn’t mind being brought in on
the Wookalar case, though.
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