She's waiting for me in the car — my sidekick on an errand in which I will buy milk and eggs. On our way, we'll rehearse our own lost episode of Gilmore Girls.
"Will you teach me how to drive?"
"I don't know, will I?"
"Be serious."
She looked at me with almost the exact same expression of the little girl who had informed me in earnest not ten years prior that she would never, ever, ever, no way, no how, not ever, not even in a million years, EVER, want to be the person behind the wheel of a car.
And yet here she was, six months before reaching the grand old age of vehicular viability -- feet finally reaching the pedals -- begging me to let her take a spin in the family sedan, slow, on the driveway.
I had laughed way back then as her sing-song voice insisted that she would never leave home, or get married, or learn which petal makes the car move and which makes the car stop. Of course, I told her that her tune would change one day, she would just have to wait.
The waiting was but the work of a moment.
I'm going to admit that I demurred for a bit, knowing full and well that this was a moment her father would savor. He would draw out the process so that it would be a rite of passage.
Just as my father once explained to me.
With him, she would learn about tire pressure and brake fluid and checking the oil. He would teach her to use jumper cables and know how to extract the jack from its hiding place behind the spare tire. He would explain the lights and signals and make her practice using the windshield wipers for hours -- or possibly days -- before he'd ever let her turn on the ignition.
Each task a test of her worthiness to navigate my old clunker slow around the circular drive.
There's a part of me that thinks he will be the better instructor. Not that his Y chromosome gives him an advantage over my double X for explaining Y-Turns or how to approach various X-ings (from pedestrian to railroad to four-way stops) ... it's just that he drives trucks for a living ... and understands (to a more substantial degree) the mechanics of mechanical tinkering.
I don't want to take that away from him. But I also know he doesn't have to be the first person to orbit this particular moon.
Because right now she's asking me: The person whose driven her to and from the babysitter's house, and school events, and doctors' appointments and dance class. To gymnastics and to summer camp, and to play practice and back-to-school shopping. To friends' houses, and to summer jobs, and functions where it's expected I will wait in the car (perhaps slouched down below the window level, so as not to embarrass her) not that I do.
This is where I learn about her day. She shares her thoughts and ideas. Sometimes she just talks to herself, and I just listen.
So I turn the car off and get out. Wordlessly crossing in front and opening the passenger side door as she watches me, mouth slightly agape.
"Go on. Get behind the wheel."
She doesn't quite believe my intentions are real as she retraces my steps back to the driver's side. She automatically buckles up.
I make her adjust the seat and check her mirrors.
I notice how she moves for the brake with her left foot and explain how that's a bad habit she should jettison now. "Right foot only for automatic transmissions.
I give her one instruction only. We're going to move slowly. Apply little to no pressure on the gas pedal at first, let's see how we roll."
Practice makes perfect.
"Start the car."
Which she does, easily and without the metal upon metal grinding a newbie often sparks until they realize the engine has already caught on.
She'd already learned that mistake this past winter as her anxiety to get to school early outpaced my dawdling to plunk myself down into an icy cold car seat, and I let her be the remote starter.
I do have a slight tinge of guilt. It passes.
Her dad will revel in this work.
He would have her check off a list as long as the driveway before he'd ever let her sit behind the wheel. He'd have her changing tires and washing windows and draining and replacing all the fluids.
I was going to let her drive the car forward fifty feet, up one small hill, around one slight curve, coming to a stop a car's length or more from the intersection of a sparsely traveled roadway at the end of the driveway.
Surrounded by trees and loose gravel.
I was beginning to have second thoughts ... There are so many trees I just never noticed before in this forest.
In fewer than two minutes, the ride was over.
We were unscathed. Yet in those 120 seconds, I had instructed my daughter to ease forward, press on the gas slightly more and tap the brakes gently. I also held the wheel so the car would edge leftward at least twice. I'm only the least bit ashamed to admit that I braced myself for the possibility of being launched (at least metaphorically) through the windshield.
And yes ... I pressed hard on the imaginary passenger-side brake, which comes standard on most vehicles but only appears when the primary driver is seated on the passenger side.
Success.
No quarter panels (or trees) were harmed in the making of this memory, partly because I helped steer us around that first corner. Only a minor rut in the recently grated and pressed gravel resulted. (Totally fixable with a rake).
She didn't need to ask, "How was my driving?" as we switched places and moved on with our tasks.
The most important lesson she learned first hand: that it was in equal parts easier than she expected and more complicated than she imagined. Totally something practice with her father would make perfect.
Instead, she asked how her driving would affect me.
"I will certainly miss these talks."
"Will you teach me how to drive?"
"I don't know, will I?"
"Be serious."
She looked at me with almost the exact same expression of the little girl who had informed me in earnest not ten years prior that she would never, ever, ever, no way, no how, not ever, not even in a million years, EVER, want to be the person behind the wheel of a car.
And yet here she was, six months before reaching the grand old age of vehicular viability -- feet finally reaching the pedals -- begging me to let her take a spin in the family sedan, slow, on the driveway.
I had laughed way back then as her sing-song voice insisted that she would never leave home, or get married, or learn which petal makes the car move and which makes the car stop. Of course, I told her that her tune would change one day, she would just have to wait.
The waiting was but the work of a moment.
I'm going to admit that I demurred for a bit, knowing full and well that this was a moment her father would savor. He would draw out the process so that it would be a rite of passage.
Just as my father once explained to me.
With him, she would learn about tire pressure and brake fluid and checking the oil. He would teach her to use jumper cables and know how to extract the jack from its hiding place behind the spare tire. He would explain the lights and signals and make her practice using the windshield wipers for hours -- or possibly days -- before he'd ever let her turn on the ignition.
Each task a test of her worthiness to navigate my old clunker slow around the circular drive.
There's a part of me that thinks he will be the better instructor. Not that his Y chromosome gives him an advantage over my double X for explaining Y-Turns or how to approach various X-ings (from pedestrian to railroad to four-way stops) ... it's just that he drives trucks for a living ... and understands (to a more substantial degree) the mechanics of mechanical tinkering.
I don't want to take that away from him. But I also know he doesn't have to be the first person to orbit this particular moon.
Because right now she's asking me: The person whose driven her to and from the babysitter's house, and school events, and doctors' appointments and dance class. To gymnastics and to summer camp, and to play practice and back-to-school shopping. To friends' houses, and to summer jobs, and functions where it's expected I will wait in the car (perhaps slouched down below the window level, so as not to embarrass her) not that I do.
This is where I learn about her day. She shares her thoughts and ideas. Sometimes she just talks to herself, and I just listen.
So I turn the car off and get out. Wordlessly crossing in front and opening the passenger side door as she watches me, mouth slightly agape.
"Go on. Get behind the wheel."
She doesn't quite believe my intentions are real as she retraces my steps back to the driver's side. She automatically buckles up.
I make her adjust the seat and check her mirrors.
I notice how she moves for the brake with her left foot and explain how that's a bad habit she should jettison now. "Right foot only for automatic transmissions.
I give her one instruction only. We're going to move slowly. Apply little to no pressure on the gas pedal at first, let's see how we roll."
Practice makes perfect.
"Start the car."
Which she does, easily and without the metal upon metal grinding a newbie often sparks until they realize the engine has already caught on.
She'd already learned that mistake this past winter as her anxiety to get to school early outpaced my dawdling to plunk myself down into an icy cold car seat, and I let her be the remote starter.
I do have a slight tinge of guilt. It passes.
Her dad will revel in this work.
He would have her check off a list as long as the driveway before he'd ever let her sit behind the wheel. He'd have her changing tires and washing windows and draining and replacing all the fluids.
I was going to let her drive the car forward fifty feet, up one small hill, around one slight curve, coming to a stop a car's length or more from the intersection of a sparsely traveled roadway at the end of the driveway.
Surrounded by trees and loose gravel.
I was beginning to have second thoughts ... There are so many trees I just never noticed before in this forest.
In fewer than two minutes, the ride was over.
We were unscathed. Yet in those 120 seconds, I had instructed my daughter to ease forward, press on the gas slightly more and tap the brakes gently. I also held the wheel so the car would edge leftward at least twice. I'm only the least bit ashamed to admit that I braced myself for the possibility of being launched (at least metaphorically) through the windshield.
And yes ... I pressed hard on the imaginary passenger-side brake, which comes standard on most vehicles but only appears when the primary driver is seated on the passenger side.
Success.
No quarter panels (or trees) were harmed in the making of this memory, partly because I helped steer us around that first corner. Only a minor rut in the recently grated and pressed gravel resulted. (Totally fixable with a rake).
She didn't need to ask, "How was my driving?" as we switched places and moved on with our tasks.
The most important lesson she learned first hand: that it was in equal parts easier than she expected and more complicated than she imagined. Totally something practice with her father would make perfect.
Instead, she asked how her driving would affect me.
"I will certainly miss these talks."
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