Teaching my kids to drive has been the most terrifying bonding experience of my life. I thought childbirth was stressful. I thought potty training was intense. But nothing compares to sitting in the passenger seat while your teenager approaches a stop sign like it personally offended them.
I remember my son’s first lesson. He sat behind the wheel like he was about to launch a rocket. I tried to stay calm, offering supportive phrases like “You are doing great” while secretly pressing my imaginary brake pedal into the floorboard. My knuckles were white. My soul left my body every time he turned left without signaling.
Then came the parking lot practice. You would think an empty lot would be low stress. Wrong. Watching him try to park between two faded lines was like witnessing an episode of a cooking show where no one has ever used an oven. So much confidence. So little accuracy.
And then there was my daughter, who decided the gas pedal was more of a suggestion than a rule. She took turns like she was auditioning for a Fast and Furious movie. Meanwhile, I aged five years and began reevaluating my life choices.
They both swear they are excellent drivers now. I swear I will never fully unclench my shoulders. But somehow we survived. The cars are still in one piece. Mostly. And we all have stories to tell at family dinners.
So if you are about to teach your teen to drive, may I suggest snacks, deep breathing, and maybe a neck pillow for when you inevitably stiffen up from sheer panic. Just remember, one day they will be the ones nervously clutching the door while their own teenager takes the wheel. And that, my friends, is justice.