Look out, toddler behind the wheel!

Or so that's what I always see. Someone needs to tell me that I'll get used to seeing my kid driving the car in which I am a passenger, because every time I look over at the driver's seat and see Boy, I see the little seven-year-old imp whose feet couldn't quite reach the petals, grinning at me as he played at driving.

He's not bad at it, really. We've been woefully inadequate at taking him out to practice, in part because of our crazy schedules that never intersect, and in part because it's immensely stressful. Look, I know he isn't likely to kill us, not as carefully as he drives right now. But the consequences for even a minor fender-bender while he's at the learner's-permit stage are so disastrous that it makes me five times as nervous.

Plus, it's MY new car. We were supposed to teach him on Jim's old piece of crap. Which didn't last long enough for Boy to get a learner's permit.

At one point I declared it was just too much, and Jim needed to take over the instruction. Boy vetoed that one. "He's even more nervous than you," he said, and demonstrated Jim's death-grip on the Oh-Shit Handle over the passenger seat.

BOY: *rolls through stop sign*
ME: See, that's a rolling stop, otherwise known as illegal. Your grandfather used to call it a California stop, but that's because he learned to drive in Los Angeles.
BOY: On a Model T.
ME: I am so telling him you said that.


  1. My parents called it a California stop too and they grew up in the midwest - it must be a generational thing. :)


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