For instance, we beg the kids to talk, talk, talk, but once we get them talking, we want them to shut up. (Okay, “tone down” is a little softer.) When they hit the teen years, some of them either clam up once again, or talk and text all night. A little balance would be in order here.
The same goes for learning how to walk: We are thrilled when they can finally walk, but we spend the next twenty years stifling their urges to walk to the store, walk to the park, or go for a walk with that cute kid they found in grade ten.
And now there's the whole driving thing: We are tickled pink when they can ride their first trike, their first bike, even their first quad. By that time, there's the matter of learning how to drive a car—without driving us nuts.
Once again, I am in the muddle, er, middle of teaching two (not one) new drivers. Every trip out of the house is quite the adventure these days: It's Driver A on Mondays, Driver B on Tuesdays, and so on. This is a two-for-one deal that doesn't get easier with age.
I would love to hoodwink you with glowing stories of my cool-headedness as a driving instructor, but that would be a lie. You think a backseat driver is bad? You ought to hear me in the passenger's seat. I don't carry on conversations much when I am doing the driver's instruction thing: My talk is limited to “watch out,” “turn here,” and “slow down!”—and something that rhymes with “idiot” (okay, okay, slight exaggeration).
Which is worse: Watching a novice driver learn the ropes, or having said novice driver watch me drive? It's the old “do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do” routine. I have never been more conscious of so-called questionable taxi stops, shoddy lane procedures, and bad blinker habits.
And that's when I'm in the driver's seat. (I sure hope Officer Soanso isn't reading this.)
I am still a safe and careful driver, and I believe I could pass my test once again, even though it has been forty-plus years since I took it. This time, though, I would make sure I didn't blow through the first stop sign I come to—like I did on my driver's test!
Certain families have special rites of passages. First day of school, first communion, first job, first paycheque, and so on. Novice drivers have become one of our rites of passage—only we think in terms of first speeding ticket, first dent, and first car.
I am happy to say that we have added five additional drivers to the Funston household over the years, other than Mr. And Mrs. F. (that would be the missus and me, Maurice). Where I am not quite so happy is with the number of tickets that have accumulated in that time. I am not naming names, though I will tell you that their last name starts with “F.” Nor will I discuss damage to fenders, mirrors, bumpers, and the ever-present need for tow trucks— that would be cruel and inconsiderate.
One thing we have passed along to our (now not-so) junior drivers is the AMA card. And, no, AMA does not stand for American Medical Association (well, actually it does, just not in this case). I speak of the ever-present, always-useful, multi-versatile Alberta Motor Association card. Free towing, discounted hotel rooms, and the like, make it all worthwhile owning one.
By gassing up regularly at either one of two unnamed gas stations (think funny haircut or sled dog), we are able to save money on our annual fee. When there are (or have been) so many drivers under one roof, but on one plan, this is a great deal.
Life is a trade-off, so the trade-off here is that I need to go through the trauma of training and teaching new drivers, in order to have someone else who can pick up the kids, run the errands, and run me to town.
You might say that this whole instruction thing is a matter of driving me around the bend, one way or the other.
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