By George Howe
There are certain milestones in your child’s life that fill a parent with pride: their first steps, first day of school, graduation…and the day the Commonwealth of Massachusetts decides they are legally qualified to operate a 4,000-pound vehicle without you. Recently, it was my daughter Cali’s turn to take her driver’s test at the Plymouth DMV.
Naturally, I approached this event with the calm, measured demeanor you would expect from a financial planner. Which is why we arrived at her driving school parking lot about an hour before the test to conduct what can only be described as Driver’s Ed Boot Camp. Pull into a parking space. Back out. Do it again. Parallel park. Again. Back up 50 feet in a straight line. Again. Turn around. Again. By the end of the hour, Cali was probably less concerned about passing the road test than she was about getting away from me.
Eventually, I decided there was nothing more I could teach her. Or, more accurately, there was nothing more she was willing to listen to. So off we went to the Plymouth DMV. For those who haven’t experienced a child’s road test, there’s an interesting role reversal that takes place. For the previous year, I had been sitting in the passenger seat offering helpful parental observations such as: “Slow down.” “Watch that car.” “You’re too close.” “YOU’RE TOO CLOSE.” And my personal favorite: “BRAKE.”
But on test day, I was relegated to the back seat. No coaching. No helpful suggestions. No imaginary brake pedal. Just me, my thoughts and the horrifying realization that I had absolutely no control over what was about to happen. Then the driving instructor walked out and I immediately felt better. Cali drives an orange Jeep, tje instructor owns a pink Jeep. Apparently, Jeep people have a bond. Within about 30 seconds, the two of them were chatting like old friends. They talked about Jeeps. They talked about college. They talked about what Cali was thinking about doing after high school. Meanwhile, I was sitting directly behind them with my head down, staring intently at the carpet.
I decided my contribution to the road test would be simple: make no eye contact, make no sudden movements and, under absolutely no circumstances, speak. So we pulled out of the parking lot. I stared at the floor. They talked about college. We made a turn. I stared at the floor. They continued talking about college. At some point, I’m pretty sure we stopped, backed up 50 feet and demonstrated some of the skills we had spent the morning obsessively practicing. I wouldn’t know. I was still studying the carpet.
And then, seemingly five minutes later, we were back at the DMV. Test over. She passed. Just like that, my daughter went from being a kid who needed me sitting next to her saying “slow down” every 30 seconds to a licensed Massachusetts driver who could legally leave the house without me. It was exciting. It was terrifying. And it was a little bittersweet.
Because getting your driver’s license is one of those moments when your world suddenly gets much bigger. You can drive yourself, and your brother, to school. Drive to work. Meet your friends. Go get something to eat. You don’t need Mom or Dad to take you everywhere anymore. Which, when you’re 17, is called freedom. When you’re a parent, it’s called checking Life360 app every seven minutes.
Of course, there are advantages for us, too. After years of practices, games, school events, friends’ houses and the endless “Can you drive me…?” requests, we suddenly have another licensed driver in the family. So congratulations, Cali. You earned it. I’m proud of you. Just remember everything we practiced that morning: check your mirrors, use your turn signal, watch your speed and leave plenty of room between you and the car in front of you.
And if you ever get nervous behind the wheel, just do what your father did during your road test…put your head down and stare at the carpet.