"Drive a
 car? Didn't
I just get you toilet-trained?""That was 13 years ago, Mom."
"How time flies..."
While the feeling of finally toilet-training the boy was still a
warm, fuzzy one, I knew that it was time for yet another rite of
passage.
He'd been through the first day of school, lost his first tooth
and had his first bike accident. I'd even given him his first razor
in the hopes that someday he'd find the courage to shave his fuzzy
little mustache.
But driving? He hadn't even learned to flush the toilet
consistently.
I didn't want to be the one responsible for putting this flighty
day-dreamer behind the wheel of a fast-moving vehicle.
I had visions of my 2-year-old car parked in my neighbors'
pansies because he forgot where we lived and missed our driveway.
Still if I didn't teach him to drive, he wouldn't be able to get
a job. And if he didn't have a job, he would live with me forever.
And if he lived with me forever, he would eat all my food.
Even now, when I go to the cupboard for a snack, I am lucky to
find a couple of saltine crackers and a few moldy raisins stuck in
the back corner of the bottom shelf. The only reason the human
composting bin didn't see these is because he is too lazy to bend
down and look.
This was a convincing argument. I had some tiny conscience
problems when I thought about the other drivers on the road, but
after some consideration -- about three seconds -- I thought, "Every
man for himself!"
First things first. I had to teach him how to put gas in the car.
This was first because I needed gas and didn't want to get out of my
car.
I handed him a debit card and he took it between two fingers as
if it was something slimy.
I told him to put it in the slot. He decided that was silly.
Holding on to my card in one hand, he proceeded to pick up the pump
handle. Then he couldn't decide how to open my gas tank while he had
something in both hands. Rather than put down the pump handle, he
stuck the debit card in the slot and screwed open my gas tank.
"You have to put the card in and take it out fast," I said.
After he had inserted the pump handle into the tank, he turned
around and pulled out the card at lightning speed.
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 "It says error. I'll try it slower."
"No, no. Put it in fast AND take it out fast."
He did it like a tae kwon do move, complete with swooshing sound
effects and ending in a ninja pose.
"It asks for a debit or credit card, Mom."
"No, it wants to know whether your card is a debit or credit."
"Oh... Well... what is it?"
"It's a debit, but push credit."
"Won't it know that I'm lying?"
"If it knew, why would it ask?"
"Oh, yeah, right."
He pushed "credit" and apparently expected immediate results.
What results he was looking for, I don't know. Impatiently, he
pushed "credit" a bazillion times.
"It's not working," he said.
"You only have to push it once."
He pushed it again -- once.
I got out of the car, canceled the transaction and started the
process over. I showed him which gas selection was the cheap one and
told him there was never a need for the expensive gas unless he
owned a Ferrari.
"That won't be long," he said smugly.
I rolled my eyes.
I told him to watch the numbers and stop when it said $30.
I even showed him how to prop the handle in the "on" position so
he wouldn't have to hold it the entire time.
When the numbers hit $30, he pulled the handle out of the tank
and promptly doused his Crocs with gasoline.
We drove home with the windows down to avoid being asphyxiated.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
[By LAURA SNYDER]
Laura Snyder is a nationally syndicated columnist,
author and speaker. You can reach her at
lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
or visit www.lauraonlife.com
for more info. |
