Welcome.. thank you so much for clicking over.  You can find out about me in the About section or check out the Please Stand By Post. For my first post I thought I’d throw my hat into the ring for “Mother of the Year!” Here’s a Blonde Highlight for you. I realize it’s a long post. But it’s my first official blog. I’m excited.

       When I was a teenager I taught a bunch of chicks how to drive a stick shift in my powder blue Volkswagen Beetle. I was cool. 
        I was such a good teacher that all my friends chose me over actual adults to teach ‘em how to shift gears.  I understood the perils of this rite of passage because when my dad taught me he’d sit in the passenger seat and chant dontpoptheclutchdontpoptheclutch… DO NOT POP THE!”   
       The car would lurch forward and stall. Oops.
       “Why did you pop the clutch?” My dad, getting grayer by the mile, would ask this question more to the sky than to me.
         I told my dad to relax. I was cool.
        Because I was cool at sixteen (teaching other sixteen-year-olds how to drive), I, at 38, was now looking forward to driving with my sixteen-year-old son. He’s completed Drivers Ed classes and has to drive with his parents for 50 hours in order to move to the next “independent” level.
       “Well son, here’s the keys.” I get in the passenger seat. My son sits behind the wheel for the first time. I feel like the cool mom, and am sure that my guidance will be benevolent. I will gently guide him. I will encourage and instill confidence. My coolness will ease him into mastery of this new driving responsibility.  My assured directives will ensure his safe passage.  I am the Zen at the center of my son’s initiation into vehicular adulthood.
      This is a classic case of me not knowing myself. At all. (Here’s where it gets ugly so turn away if you’re a sensitve type.)
     The Son pulls out into traffic and I scream “SHOLY HIT!!!!” (Letters inverted for your protection.) The kid slams on the break.
      “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU CAN’T STOP IN THE MIDDLE OF A TURN!” I’m shrieking now. He begins again.
      “TURN THE WHEEL. MORE! YOU’RE GOING TO HIT THE MAILBOX.” Did they not teach the concept of staying in your lane?
      “Mom, I’m not going to…” he calmly reasons with me. At this point I grab the wheel. I gasp, grab and scream — a dozen more times until we get home.
  The next time, the boy’s father has a go.  Let him handle it.
      “So, how did he do?” I ask smugly, as my husband returns calm and nonchalant.
      “Fine.  He did well.”
      “How many times did you have to grab the wheel?” I ask, giving my husband a knowing nod.
      “What? None. Why are you grabbing the wheel?” He couldn’t believe it.
       So…  for the next outing The Son drives the car, the husband relaxes in the passenger seat, and I am relegated to the back.
     “HE’S GOING TO GO IN THE DITCH!” I scream while shaking my husband’s headrest. 
      Son and Husband look back at me from the front seats as if I have blurted something ridiculous like, “I LOVE THAT SQUIRREL’S PAJAMA PANTS!”
      “He’s fine. You need to simmer down,” my husband shoots back at me. The two re-focus on the task of driving us to the movie rental place.   “AGH” I gasp. This time, I am sure he is going to swerve into oncoming traffic. But again my son and husband show no signs of distress or recognition of impending doom.
     Apparently, I’m the only one with a clear-eyed grasp of mortality.
     So a few days go by and we’re out, once again, on the highway. They put me in the backseat with a scarf over my head and my fingers jammed in my ears.  I am instructed to hum.  I do.
      The Son does just fine on the highway. We arrive at our destination surprisingly alive. As I understand, it had been a peaceful drive.  But — as I remained in my makeshift sensory deprivation tank, we might have plowed through a legion of squirrels in pajamas for all I know.
      If anyone knows where we can buy a “Student Rider” sticker to tape over my mouth, let me know.  And if you see me riding around town bound and gagged in the backseat, don’t worry, I’m cool.

What do you think? I know too long right? Please feel free to give me any advice you might have for riding with teenagers. I’m oviously in need.