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The Write Mommy For The Job by Jennifer Brown Permit-armed and dangerous There is a day that comes, in every mother’s life, where she has to sit back, smile, and thank God she’s not a squirrel. Or a rabbit. A bird. Tree. Small foreign car. Pedestrian. I’m talking about the day your first child gets her driver’s permit [insert Twilight Zone theme song here]. Teen Goddess turned 15 last month and on her birthday I took her to the Missouri Department of Why Is This Happening to Me? to test for her permit. I was more than happy to take her. And by more than happy I mean I gave in after 37 straight hours of hearing this: “PleaseMomc’monMompleasepleaseC’monC’monIwanttogopleasepleaseplease…” Also, I figured there was no way in the world she would pass. I’d seen her put more effort into picking out a cell phone charm than into studying for this test. I was wrong. Teen Goddess is on the road now. Well, sort of. Sometimes she’s on the sidewalk. The grass. Curbs. Mailboxes. Shrubs. There is no way to describe the terror I felt when standing in line at the Department of You’ve Got to Be Kidding Me, You’re Really Going to Let Her Pass?, but I would guess it’s a feeling very similar to what Hubby felt every time I leaned close, smiled sweetly and whispered, “Honey, we’re pregnant…again.” I tried to change the clerk’s mind about issuing that permit. “This child loses her iPod every day,” I whispered conspiratorially across the desk. “Do you really think she’s going to remember where the emergency brake is?” The clerk said nothing. “She’s very airheaded,” I continued, lifting up a lock of Teen Goddess’ hair and peering into her ear. “Seriously, it’s like the Cave of the Winds in there.” The clerk kept typing, ignoring me. “Please…you’re a mother, right? A grandmother? You have a cat? Give me something to work with here!” Nothing. The clerk pushed the paper toward me, indicating that I should sign, agreeing to give Teen Goddess a hideous amount of supervised driving experience, including nighttime hours. Which meant, of course, that Goddess had roughly 40 hours of payback time, whereby I was going to be forced to sit in a moving vehicle, totally at her mercy. I knew that there was no way Hubby was ever going to be stupid enough to get into the car with her. It would be up to me. I looked at the paper. I looked at Teen Goddess, who was busy fixing her hair and checking her teeth in a mirror. I looked at the paper again. I looked at Teen Goddess, who was texting someone. Paper. Goddess (smiling at a boy in line). Paper. Goddess (digging in her purse for a piece of gum)… With a shaky hand I signed and soon we were off, Teen Goddess admiring her permit, saying, “That’s a really good picture of me. Can I drive home?” Ever since, my life has been narrated by a constant stream of this: “Watch that stop sign. No, stop all the way. All the way, I said. That wasn’t a stop. I don’t care if it ‘felt stopish,’ it wasn’t a stop. The speed limit’s 25 here…25…25!!! Don’t hit that kid. Watch it, watch it…watch it…WATCH…mailbox on your right. I said mailbox. Watch the mailbox…do you not see the mailbox? Maybe I should drive. Okay, now, easy, easy. Don’t hit that. No, I didn’t find that funny. A car’s no place for ‘funny.’ 25, I said. The speed limit’s 25!” It all seems so unfair, to suffer this kind of terror day in and day out by myself. So three times a day I call Hubby’s cell phone and leave a message: “Honey, we’re pregnant…again.” I feel much better after that.
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