I Unleash A New Danger Upon The World
We are an immediate family of four, and have added a new driver to our roster of two. This new driver has, statistically speaking, a higher crash rate than my husband or me, though she's only had her license for 96 hours. Yep: my teenager passed her driver's test and, as a 16 year-old, is in a group with the dubious distinction of having the highest crash rate of any other driver of any other age. Including those 96 year-old guys who get the accelerator mixed up with the brake and plow through a farmer's market killing 28 people in 3.2 seconds. We're excited!
The whole thing, the paperwork and coughing up $$ to the DMV and the test itself...well, it was very exciting and stressful. There were times I was worried I wasn't going to get through the ordeal, but I prevailed. Because, as above, it was exciting and stressful. For ME. Hey, it was! You have no idea what I went through. This was a huge milestone for me: it marked the day when I could start dumping all my can-you-run-to-the-store-for-milk-and-Advil chores on someone I gave birth to. It's about time one of these parasitic bums started pulling their own weight. There's only room in this family for one lazy-ass parasite who puts herself before everything else.
My kid was born in August, but didn't take her test until October. This was because the state of Minnesota was closed for a few weeks this summer, also known as the state shut-down, or What A Pain In My Ass. I still remember being in Wisconsin and having people ask me, "So, Minnesota's closed, right?" "Uh...well, we're not meeting people at the border and escorting them past the state line at gunpoint, but essentially: yeah." This meant, among other things, that the DMV wasn't playing nicely with anyone. More than usual, I mean.
By the time Minnesota opened back up for business ("Come on in! We've got 10,000 lakes that are open again! Swim until you're one great big wrinkle, we don't care. Also, we can sell booze again."), the waiting list for the driver's test was months long. And I was really impressed at how my daughter took the news: very matter-of-fact, very "well, there's nothing I can do about it but practice, so let's go practice". Much, much better than I would have taken the news at that age: "Are you kidding me, DMV? What, you mean I have to wait TWO GODDAMN MONTHS before I can legally hop in a car and get the hell away from these people? Are you trying to goad me into beating you to death, DMV? Because I'm up for it, DMV! I am ABSOLUTELY UP FOR IT!"
(It's not the first time I've been grateful my daughter is, at times, her father's daughter, instead of Princess Asshat, heir to the throne of Asshat.) I felt bad for the kid, but also secretly relieved: two more months to practise! To get better, to get safer. Two more months I didn't have to acknowledge that my l'il asshat will be a legal adult in less than two years, free to call me an asshat and move out or get married or head for a war zone or start racking up credit card debt. Or just the former. Okay, technically she's free to...you know what? I'm getting off-course.
So, we practiced and practiced. Sometimes I'd try for the high road. My depth perception is lousy, so there are times when my life is like that scene in Jurassic Park, when the T-Rex is thundering down on a terrified Jeff Goldblum who sees the slavering dinosaur through the objects-are-closer-than-they-appear reflection of a car mirror. Insert a writing deadline or irked editor or annoyed husband for the T-Rex and you have my life. So I understand intellectually that sometimes while my kid is driving, it looks like a close call when it really isn't.
Intellectually. Not, you know, realistically. So the kid would endure outbursts like, "Watch out! You almost hit that semi and all those school buses and those four dogs and that weird-looking cat!" "Mom, they're on the other end of the street. Four blocks away. And those are first graders, not weird cats and dogs." Or, "Watch it! You almost clipped that pedestrian!" "Mom, you're the one driving. See? I'm in the back seat. Trying to pretend I'm an orphan. YOU almost clipped him."
Like I said, sometimes I realize what I'm doing and try to correct the behavior. A few days ago she took a corner I thought brought her dangerously close to a parked car, but told myself to shut up. As we passed the car, I saw that she was several feet away. I congratulated myself for not saying anything (it's way too easy to freak out an inexperienced driver...there's no sport to it at all).
But I never fooled the kid for half a second. "Mom, it's okay." "What? I know.""You didn't say anything, but you squeezed all your toes.""What?""Your toes." (One of my many bad habits: I have freakishly long legs, and so rest my feet on the passenger-side dashboard.) "You've squinched them all down super-tight. They're white, mom. All your toes are dead white." (Stupid sandals.)"Sorry. I thought you had it covered. I tried really hard not to say anything.""And I appreciate it. Let's go home. I think you need a nap.""I'm not tired!""No, no, of course not. Listen, we can go home and I can read you part of your manuscript and then you can have a cookie and then rest on the couch.""I don't need a nap!""No, no," she soothed. "Just rest for half an hour. Then you can get back up.""TWO cookies.""Okay, Mom.""And cocoa.""Okay.""Because you're not the boss of me, young lady.""Of course not.""Okay, then."
Fast forward to the day of her exam. We had an hour to practice, so we drove around downtown so she could work on parking and not running red lights, which I guess DMV examiners frown upon. But because the time of her test was so close, she was getting rattled, so I was getting rattled, which got her more rattled. "You better try that again...no, no, that was terrible! Look, just do it like you did yesterday. You did perfectly yesterday. You've done it perfectly every day for three wee...no, no, no! My God, if there had been a dog in that crosswalk you would have creamed him! Why would you want to bring the ASPCA down on top of you? Terrible! Terrible!"
Then my inner voice, which sounds like Satan, which sounds like Lena Olin, kicked in: "You're at least as nervous as she is. So you're over-reacting. And you're just making things worse. Shut. The hell. Up."
"I just think you're over-correcting is all," I finished meekly, followed with, "Look, you're fine. The DMV, uh, loves it when you're a foot and a half from the curb. Why don't we head over?"
So we did. And as usual, there were several confusing signs which contradicted the instructions on various forms, which we weren't sure we were supposed to fill out just then, or if we needed entirely different forms, and there was a long line just to find someone to ask...I was delighted. The quicker she learned about the hell-on-earth that is the DMV, the better.
I thought I was fine until the examiner called her name. I really did. I was saying things like, "Look, you'll be fine. You'll be astonished how low the state sets the bar for licensed drivers." And, "Listen, I'm sure you'll be great, but it's no big deal if you don't pass. We'll just practise more and you'll do fine next time. Really, it's not a big deal." And, "Do you have a cookie in your purse? I'd murder for a cookie right now. Am I talking really loud? In my head it sounds like I'm talking really loud. God, it's hot in here!"
Then he called her name, a big bluff older man who had a stern expression. I was instantly a nervous wreck for her. This guy looked like a no-bullshit kind of fellow. Was the frown a permanent expression? Was it a cramp? Or was he having a bad day? Or did he hate teenagers? Oh my God, he hates teenagers. He hates MY teenager. He's already flunked her in his mind. THEY ARE NOT EVEN IN THE CAR AND SHE'S FLUNKED. You bastard! "You can tell the DMV that MJ is coming and she's bringing hell with her!" Wait. Was that out loud?
That's when I realized I was, um, a little nervous for the kid. Weird. Normally my own needs and desires are paramount. Too bad I didn't see this coming. Why didn't SHE see this coming? Typical teenager: no thought for how difficult and stressful this was going to be for me!
I watched them walk out together, chat, then get into my filthy Escape and drive into the sunset, if the sun had been setting. Then I pulled out my book and tried to read. Which is when the lady next to me said, "So, that's your daughter?" "Yeah." "I'm sure she'll be fine." "Yeah." "My daughter did great." "Okay." "Until that guy tricked her into flunking."
"What?" I instantly lost interest in re-reading SPOCK'S WORLD. "He tricked her?"
"Well, he told her to turn here, and here, and then to take a left...except it was a one way, and by taking a left she broke the law. But I had told her to do everything the examiner said. So she did. And he flunked her."
But...I told MY daughter to do everything he said, too! "He's gonna tell you where to turn and which streets to drive down, and you just do what he says and you'll be fine." Unless he secretly hates all teenagers and has a wicked agenda to flunk them! I instantly regretted telling my kid anything. Ever. At any time.
The woman must have watched the blood drain from my face, because she added, "I'm sure it'll be okay. But my daughter was really bummed. It took three months even to get in here because of the backlog from the state shut-down. The earliest she could re-rest would have been the end of December."
"That sucks," I said, and meant it. Flunking was one thing...anybody can be nervous and make a mistake. Having to wait almost three months to re-test because the state legislature wants to play Keep Away with the budget is something else.
"So I took the day off from work, and we came here, and we've been here all day without an appointment, hoping they might be able to squeeze us in."
"That sucks, too," I said, and meant it. Ballsy move, probably doomed to failure. Showing up WITH an appointment was no guarantee. And to burn a vacation day for it? Yikes. "I hope it works out."
"When we were here before, I was talking to a mom whose daughter had flunked the test six times." When I gasped in dismay, she warmed to her topic and we gossiped for a bit.
Normally I hate that. I'm owning it: I can be unpleasantly anti-social at times, which is why I bring a book everywhere. If I'm stuck in line at the bank, or the DMV, or the Post Office, I have a plan. I've been lugging books into lines for over two decades. And I hate it when someone who didn't bring a book decides to chat me up because she's bored. Hate. It. "Do you really not see that I'm reading? What is it about my stiff, unfriendly posture and the nose in my book that projects, 'Talk to me about something I don't care about, stranger!'"
Not this time, though. Having tried to read the same paragraph about a dozen times, I gave up and shut the book and traded DMV horror stories with the mom. Her kid popped in and said to me, "Hey, he's getting out! I think something's wrong: she's parking, but he got out. He didn't get out during mine." Just when all the blood had finished pooling into the bottom of my freshly bleeding ulcer, the other mom came to my rescue with, "Yeah, but she's got an SUV. We don't. He has to get out to see how far from the curb she is. That's all it is."
"Oh, okay. It's okay." I probably looked pretty green and sickly by now, because the teen I didn't give birth to was all, "She did good, though. She's doing good. It's okay." Then she went back to the window. "Here they come! I think it's okay."
Naturally, I was too polished and mature to jockey for position at the window like some gawking bystander. So I stayed in my seat and shrilled, "Is she out? Are they out? Are they still in the car? Are they out? Huh? Are they?"
"Here they come," the teen I didn't birth announced. "I think it's okay. She's not crying. I cried."
I was gonna cry, too. Any minute. I shot to my feet (polished and mature...who did I think I was fooling, exactly?) and practically hip-checked the kid out of the way. My daughter looked...neutral. She had a completely neutral expression on her face. I've seen this kid almost every day for the last 16 years and had no idea if she'd passed or failed.
"I...can't...tell!" Squint, peer. Glare, glare.
Chris walked in, the examiner right behind her. She looked at me and gestured for me to come over, being a little surprised to see that about half a dozen people besides her mom were staring right at her. I thought, is it good news or bad that she wants me? It might be time to go if she flunked. Or time to cough up the bucks if she passed.
I rushed up. "So...so?"
"Yeah, I need my social security number." I must have stared incomprehensibly at her, because she added, "Are you okay?"
"What? Did you? What happened? What? What? Whaaaaaat?"
"I passed," she said, looking amazed I'd had any doubts. "What did you think happened?"
"I didn't knoooooooow!" I wailed, startling nearly everyone in the building. Then I ran back to the waiting room and gave the mom and assorted teens a double thumbs up. They all grinned: "She passed? She passed!"
I ran back to my kid. "I told them you passed," I panted. "What? I couldn't just leave without telling them."
She was staring at me like she'd never seen a harassed mom sweating profusely with a brand-new bleeding ulcer who talked to strangers when she had a terrific book in her purse. "What have you been doing?"
"Freaking out," I admitted. "A lot."
Forms were filled out, her picture was taken. She lost points on being a bit far from the curb, and one of her turns was a bit wide. All else was aces. My shrill nagging and desperate screaming during our many tutorials had worked! There was a new (hideously dangerous, according to every insurance company on the face of the earth) driver in our family.
On the way out, I paused and went back to the waiting room once again. "It was really nice talking to you," I said to the other mom. And, to her kid, "Good luck. I hope it works out for you."
My kid was still acting like I was somene she'd never met. "You...didn't...read?" She seemed unable to comprehend this, which was weird. I was always reading about how resilient teenagers are. Ha!
"I passed the time chatting instead."
"You...what?"
"What? SPOCK'S WORLD isn't going anywhere. Listen, that guy looked kind of grim. I was, ha-ha, a little worried." I tried another unconvincing laugh, which was more croaky than the first. "Was he nice?"
"Oh, no. In fact, he was really sarcastic. REALLY sarcastic." I was overjoyed. He spoke my daughter's mother tongue! He was fluent in her mother tongue! "Yeah, so I, like, instantly relaxed. It was a piece of cake after that." What were the chances of stumbling across a government employee fluent in sarcasm? Truly, the kid had been born under a lucky star.
"I'm so proud of you!" I hugged her so hard I nearly knocked her into my car. (Or, as she probably thinks of it now, her car.) "You did great!"
"Yeah, and..." My tall gorgeous smart sweet daughter hugged me back. "Thanks. You know. For all that stuff you do. The driving stuff, that's the least of it."
It's okay. I didn't cry or anything. Okay, a little. Maybe a little. But there were tons of McDonald's napkins squashed into the side pocket of my door. I save napkins from everywhere and keep them all over my car. You never know when your kid will reach a milestone and thank you while having no clue how deeply precious she is, and equal ignorance of all the terrible, illegal, monstrous things I would have done to the instructor who tricked her into flunking.
The whole thing, the paperwork and coughing up $$ to the DMV and the test itself...well, it was very exciting and stressful. There were times I was worried I wasn't going to get through the ordeal, but I prevailed. Because, as above, it was exciting and stressful. For ME. Hey, it was! You have no idea what I went through. This was a huge milestone for me: it marked the day when I could start dumping all my can-you-run-to-the-store-for-milk-and-Advil chores on someone I gave birth to. It's about time one of these parasitic bums started pulling their own weight. There's only room in this family for one lazy-ass parasite who puts herself before everything else.
My kid was born in August, but didn't take her test until October. This was because the state of Minnesota was closed for a few weeks this summer, also known as the state shut-down, or What A Pain In My Ass. I still remember being in Wisconsin and having people ask me, "So, Minnesota's closed, right?" "Uh...well, we're not meeting people at the border and escorting them past the state line at gunpoint, but essentially: yeah." This meant, among other things, that the DMV wasn't playing nicely with anyone. More than usual, I mean.
By the time Minnesota opened back up for business ("Come on in! We've got 10,000 lakes that are open again! Swim until you're one great big wrinkle, we don't care. Also, we can sell booze again."), the waiting list for the driver's test was months long. And I was really impressed at how my daughter took the news: very matter-of-fact, very "well, there's nothing I can do about it but practice, so let's go practice". Much, much better than I would have taken the news at that age: "Are you kidding me, DMV? What, you mean I have to wait TWO GODDAMN MONTHS before I can legally hop in a car and get the hell away from these people? Are you trying to goad me into beating you to death, DMV? Because I'm up for it, DMV! I am ABSOLUTELY UP FOR IT!"
(It's not the first time I've been grateful my daughter is, at times, her father's daughter, instead of Princess Asshat, heir to the throne of Asshat.) I felt bad for the kid, but also secretly relieved: two more months to practise! To get better, to get safer. Two more months I didn't have to acknowledge that my l'il asshat will be a legal adult in less than two years, free to call me an asshat and move out or get married or head for a war zone or start racking up credit card debt. Or just the former. Okay, technically she's free to...you know what? I'm getting off-course.
So, we practiced and practiced. Sometimes I'd try for the high road. My depth perception is lousy, so there are times when my life is like that scene in Jurassic Park, when the T-Rex is thundering down on a terrified Jeff Goldblum who sees the slavering dinosaur through the objects-are-closer-than-they-appear reflection of a car mirror. Insert a writing deadline or irked editor or annoyed husband for the T-Rex and you have my life. So I understand intellectually that sometimes while my kid is driving, it looks like a close call when it really isn't.
Intellectually. Not, you know, realistically. So the kid would endure outbursts like, "Watch out! You almost hit that semi and all those school buses and those four dogs and that weird-looking cat!" "Mom, they're on the other end of the street. Four blocks away. And those are first graders, not weird cats and dogs." Or, "Watch it! You almost clipped that pedestrian!" "Mom, you're the one driving. See? I'm in the back seat. Trying to pretend I'm an orphan. YOU almost clipped him."
Like I said, sometimes I realize what I'm doing and try to correct the behavior. A few days ago she took a corner I thought brought her dangerously close to a parked car, but told myself to shut up. As we passed the car, I saw that she was several feet away. I congratulated myself for not saying anything (it's way too easy to freak out an inexperienced driver...there's no sport to it at all).
But I never fooled the kid for half a second. "Mom, it's okay." "What? I know.""You didn't say anything, but you squeezed all your toes.""What?""Your toes." (One of my many bad habits: I have freakishly long legs, and so rest my feet on the passenger-side dashboard.) "You've squinched them all down super-tight. They're white, mom. All your toes are dead white." (Stupid sandals.)"Sorry. I thought you had it covered. I tried really hard not to say anything.""And I appreciate it. Let's go home. I think you need a nap.""I'm not tired!""No, no, of course not. Listen, we can go home and I can read you part of your manuscript and then you can have a cookie and then rest on the couch.""I don't need a nap!""No, no," she soothed. "Just rest for half an hour. Then you can get back up.""TWO cookies.""Okay, Mom.""And cocoa.""Okay.""Because you're not the boss of me, young lady.""Of course not.""Okay, then."
Fast forward to the day of her exam. We had an hour to practice, so we drove around downtown so she could work on parking and not running red lights, which I guess DMV examiners frown upon. But because the time of her test was so close, she was getting rattled, so I was getting rattled, which got her more rattled. "You better try that again...no, no, that was terrible! Look, just do it like you did yesterday. You did perfectly yesterday. You've done it perfectly every day for three wee...no, no, no! My God, if there had been a dog in that crosswalk you would have creamed him! Why would you want to bring the ASPCA down on top of you? Terrible! Terrible!"
Then my inner voice, which sounds like Satan, which sounds like Lena Olin, kicked in: "You're at least as nervous as she is. So you're over-reacting. And you're just making things worse. Shut. The hell. Up."
"I just think you're over-correcting is all," I finished meekly, followed with, "Look, you're fine. The DMV, uh, loves it when you're a foot and a half from the curb. Why don't we head over?"
So we did. And as usual, there were several confusing signs which contradicted the instructions on various forms, which we weren't sure we were supposed to fill out just then, or if we needed entirely different forms, and there was a long line just to find someone to ask...I was delighted. The quicker she learned about the hell-on-earth that is the DMV, the better.
I thought I was fine until the examiner called her name. I really did. I was saying things like, "Look, you'll be fine. You'll be astonished how low the state sets the bar for licensed drivers." And, "Listen, I'm sure you'll be great, but it's no big deal if you don't pass. We'll just practise more and you'll do fine next time. Really, it's not a big deal." And, "Do you have a cookie in your purse? I'd murder for a cookie right now. Am I talking really loud? In my head it sounds like I'm talking really loud. God, it's hot in here!"
Then he called her name, a big bluff older man who had a stern expression. I was instantly a nervous wreck for her. This guy looked like a no-bullshit kind of fellow. Was the frown a permanent expression? Was it a cramp? Or was he having a bad day? Or did he hate teenagers? Oh my God, he hates teenagers. He hates MY teenager. He's already flunked her in his mind. THEY ARE NOT EVEN IN THE CAR AND SHE'S FLUNKED. You bastard! "You can tell the DMV that MJ is coming and she's bringing hell with her!" Wait. Was that out loud?
That's when I realized I was, um, a little nervous for the kid. Weird. Normally my own needs and desires are paramount. Too bad I didn't see this coming. Why didn't SHE see this coming? Typical teenager: no thought for how difficult and stressful this was going to be for me!
I watched them walk out together, chat, then get into my filthy Escape and drive into the sunset, if the sun had been setting. Then I pulled out my book and tried to read. Which is when the lady next to me said, "So, that's your daughter?" "Yeah." "I'm sure she'll be fine." "Yeah." "My daughter did great." "Okay." "Until that guy tricked her into flunking."
"What?" I instantly lost interest in re-reading SPOCK'S WORLD. "He tricked her?"
"Well, he told her to turn here, and here, and then to take a left...except it was a one way, and by taking a left she broke the law. But I had told her to do everything the examiner said. So she did. And he flunked her."
But...I told MY daughter to do everything he said, too! "He's gonna tell you where to turn and which streets to drive down, and you just do what he says and you'll be fine." Unless he secretly hates all teenagers and has a wicked agenda to flunk them! I instantly regretted telling my kid anything. Ever. At any time.
The woman must have watched the blood drain from my face, because she added, "I'm sure it'll be okay. But my daughter was really bummed. It took three months even to get in here because of the backlog from the state shut-down. The earliest she could re-rest would have been the end of December."
"That sucks," I said, and meant it. Flunking was one thing...anybody can be nervous and make a mistake. Having to wait almost three months to re-test because the state legislature wants to play Keep Away with the budget is something else.
"So I took the day off from work, and we came here, and we've been here all day without an appointment, hoping they might be able to squeeze us in."
"That sucks, too," I said, and meant it. Ballsy move, probably doomed to failure. Showing up WITH an appointment was no guarantee. And to burn a vacation day for it? Yikes. "I hope it works out."
"When we were here before, I was talking to a mom whose daughter had flunked the test six times." When I gasped in dismay, she warmed to her topic and we gossiped for a bit.
Normally I hate that. I'm owning it: I can be unpleasantly anti-social at times, which is why I bring a book everywhere. If I'm stuck in line at the bank, or the DMV, or the Post Office, I have a plan. I've been lugging books into lines for over two decades. And I hate it when someone who didn't bring a book decides to chat me up because she's bored. Hate. It. "Do you really not see that I'm reading? What is it about my stiff, unfriendly posture and the nose in my book that projects, 'Talk to me about something I don't care about, stranger!'"
Not this time, though. Having tried to read the same paragraph about a dozen times, I gave up and shut the book and traded DMV horror stories with the mom. Her kid popped in and said to me, "Hey, he's getting out! I think something's wrong: she's parking, but he got out. He didn't get out during mine." Just when all the blood had finished pooling into the bottom of my freshly bleeding ulcer, the other mom came to my rescue with, "Yeah, but she's got an SUV. We don't. He has to get out to see how far from the curb she is. That's all it is."
"Oh, okay. It's okay." I probably looked pretty green and sickly by now, because the teen I didn't give birth to was all, "She did good, though. She's doing good. It's okay." Then she went back to the window. "Here they come! I think it's okay."
Naturally, I was too polished and mature to jockey for position at the window like some gawking bystander. So I stayed in my seat and shrilled, "Is she out? Are they out? Are they still in the car? Are they out? Huh? Are they?"
"Here they come," the teen I didn't birth announced. "I think it's okay. She's not crying. I cried."
I was gonna cry, too. Any minute. I shot to my feet (polished and mature...who did I think I was fooling, exactly?) and practically hip-checked the kid out of the way. My daughter looked...neutral. She had a completely neutral expression on her face. I've seen this kid almost every day for the last 16 years and had no idea if she'd passed or failed.
"I...can't...tell!" Squint, peer. Glare, glare.
Chris walked in, the examiner right behind her. She looked at me and gestured for me to come over, being a little surprised to see that about half a dozen people besides her mom were staring right at her. I thought, is it good news or bad that she wants me? It might be time to go if she flunked. Or time to cough up the bucks if she passed.
I rushed up. "So...so?"
"Yeah, I need my social security number." I must have stared incomprehensibly at her, because she added, "Are you okay?"
"What? Did you? What happened? What? What? Whaaaaaat?"
"I passed," she said, looking amazed I'd had any doubts. "What did you think happened?"
"I didn't knoooooooow!" I wailed, startling nearly everyone in the building. Then I ran back to the waiting room and gave the mom and assorted teens a double thumbs up. They all grinned: "She passed? She passed!"
I ran back to my kid. "I told them you passed," I panted. "What? I couldn't just leave without telling them."
She was staring at me like she'd never seen a harassed mom sweating profusely with a brand-new bleeding ulcer who talked to strangers when she had a terrific book in her purse. "What have you been doing?"
"Freaking out," I admitted. "A lot."
Forms were filled out, her picture was taken. She lost points on being a bit far from the curb, and one of her turns was a bit wide. All else was aces. My shrill nagging and desperate screaming during our many tutorials had worked! There was a new (hideously dangerous, according to every insurance company on the face of the earth) driver in our family.
On the way out, I paused and went back to the waiting room once again. "It was really nice talking to you," I said to the other mom. And, to her kid, "Good luck. I hope it works out for you."
My kid was still acting like I was somene she'd never met. "You...didn't...read?" She seemed unable to comprehend this, which was weird. I was always reading about how resilient teenagers are. Ha!
"I passed the time chatting instead."
"You...what?"
"What? SPOCK'S WORLD isn't going anywhere. Listen, that guy looked kind of grim. I was, ha-ha, a little worried." I tried another unconvincing laugh, which was more croaky than the first. "Was he nice?"
"Oh, no. In fact, he was really sarcastic. REALLY sarcastic." I was overjoyed. He spoke my daughter's mother tongue! He was fluent in her mother tongue! "Yeah, so I, like, instantly relaxed. It was a piece of cake after that." What were the chances of stumbling across a government employee fluent in sarcasm? Truly, the kid had been born under a lucky star.
"I'm so proud of you!" I hugged her so hard I nearly knocked her into my car. (Or, as she probably thinks of it now, her car.) "You did great!"
"Yeah, and..." My tall gorgeous smart sweet daughter hugged me back. "Thanks. You know. For all that stuff you do. The driving stuff, that's the least of it."
It's okay. I didn't cry or anything. Okay, a little. Maybe a little. But there were tons of McDonald's napkins squashed into the side pocket of my door. I save napkins from everywhere and keep them all over my car. You never know when your kid will reach a milestone and thank you while having no clue how deeply precious she is, and equal ignorance of all the terrible, illegal, monstrous things I would have done to the instructor who tricked her into flunking.
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