I hate driving. As a passenger, I drive my husband crazy. I grab the side door dramatically when he changes lanes. I sigh and roll my eyes and keep the car a chilly sixty degrees. I groan “watch out” and “slow down” repeatedly under my breath. And then, there’s the inevitable puking. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t end up horribly carsick– short drives, road trips, front seat, back seat… it doesn’t matter. And I’m not talking about a slightly queasy stomach, but full on upchucking out the window. Not a pretty sight.
Behind the wheel, I’m no better. There is nothing liberating or enjoyable about the act of driving for me. I’ve never blasted Free Falling on the radio and enjoyed the freedom of the open road—for me, it’s simply a way to get from point A to B. I’m not particularly good at it, either. Between my lack of any sense of direction at all and my messed up depth perception, I am pretty unfit driver. Jeff grew accustomed to getting bi-weekly calls from me, lost and clueless, needing him to deliver me home from God knows where. With my new car, we were ecstatic to pay the extra grand to add on a (miraculous) navigation system.
As if my dislike of the road wasn’t bad enough, my children have decided to take on the role of pint sized backseat drivers. The entire ride they shout out, green light! red light! stop! and go! (in between screams, punches and pinches, of course.) They have the nerve to criticize the speed at which I drive, the music I listen to and the games I try to play. And then yesterday, Lily was kind enough to point out that I was parked in a no parking loading zone. I started to explain that sometimes it was OK to break some rules before grumpily moving the car a few blocks away (reading is highly overrated, no?)
I look forward to the day when they get their licenses and I can do less driving. But then again, it will be me who teaches them to drive. That day may never come.