YOUNG DRIVERS of KARMA
The “teach your kids to drive” stage of parenting started out badly.
It was 7:30am, and cold and rainy. H is in line at the Drive Center waiting to write the test for her learner’s permit. I am sitting in the car - because, rainy. Two hours later, and we are still waiting for her ticket number to be called, only to find out that the ID we brought isn’t correct. Turns out you need picture health card. (Quick tip for any parent whose Canadian children just turned 16: you need to get them a new health card! Who knew? Apparently, every parent but me.) I set out for home to try to retrieve her passport and return before her ticket number is called. As I exit the Drive Centre, there is a car stationary on the median (sorry, “raised merge lane”) between the two sides of the road. The coast is clear for me to pull out – but this dude is blocking my way. WTF? So, I…and I am not proud of this…lay on the horn and peel out around him. (Yes, Asshole move. I know, I know.) Of course, it turns out that the driver was just starting out on their Drive Test. It also turns out that they were managing the turn according to proper road rules. I am mortified with myself. I am pretty sure the “Sorry! My Bad!” hand wave did not make up for scaring the S--t out the driver in the first 30 seconds of their test. Now, I kinda, sorta believe in Karma, and I was pretty sure that there was going to be recompense for adding Road Rage into the exam equation.
I was correct. Because things went downhill from there.
I have no recollection of learning to drive. As a participant in a sport that involved daily 6:00am practices, my teammates and I all learned through trail-by-carpooling. I do recall failing the test the first time (slid on ice through the first stop sign. “You can return to the lot now”). And, as the Car Wrecker story makes clear, it would have been better for everyone if I had failed the second test too.
I had low expectations for myself as a driving instructor.
I did not meet them.
Within thirty seconds of my first outing with H, I pulled the rip cord. “Nope. Sorry. Not happening. You are going to have to ask you father.” I was a nervous wreck. On occasion, one of the girls would be desperate enough to ask me to take them driving. Against my better judgement, my sense of parental duty would compel me to acquiesce. Things I would do include: covering my eyes and muttering a string of blasphemes; clutching the door handle like I might throw myself out of the car Mission Impossible style; get pissy at them for scaring me.
H: “You’re not helping!”
Me: “I told you not to ask me to take you!”
The only thing I was good for is setting up the garbage cans so they could practice parallel parking. Even then I couldn’t be in the car. I would hide inside house – the same tactic used when any tree climbing is in progress. The “Come get me if we need an ambulance” approach.
Fortunately, M has nerves of steel, so driving instruction became a Dad Duty. It was going reasonably well. M got H over the finish line. The karma comeuppance is being held at bay. But then it was S’s turn. In her own words, S feelings about driving are: “I can’t wait to get my license, so I never have to drive again.” In M’s words: “Self-driving cars can’t come soon enough.” In her driving instructor’s words, when he called to give us a heads-up: “Let me commend you on raising a lovely daughter. Unfortunately, she will fail her test.” M approaches the problem as he would a business challenge: “walk me through what has to happen to get this done.” M & S spend the next 48 hours driving the test route on repeat. M is hopeful: “She might have passed it that last time through.” The test is the next morning at 8:00am. At 8:01am, I get a call: the license plate sticker is expired.[1] She has failed before even turning on the ignition.
Because of Covid backlogs, the next test date is nine months (of being at university and not driving) later. We resort to the long-standing driving test hack, and book it in the smallest town we can find. It’s an hour and a half drive to get there, but the town has only a single Main Street and maybe three traffic lights. It’s worth the extra effort – and pays off. S passes: “The tester definitely took pity on me.” But she is only halfway there. Testing in our province is a two-part affair. As I write this, I have just received a frantic call from S minutes before her second test. “I don’t know how to park! What if they ask me to park!?” One would have thought she could have predicted that parking was a required driving skill. One would be wrong. And, just when the world makes sense, S passes the second test. (Fortunately, the lot was full, so she didn’t need to park after all.) But the Young Drivers Karma continues: the Driver Center system has crashed, and she must come back to get her test results approved. There is no reference number. Just her name scrawled on a piece of scrap paper by the customer service agent (“Dana”). Upon request, I am driving S out to check in with Dana today – because S was serious when she said she never wants to drive again.
C, despite her Value Village accident (see: Car Wrecker), has got the driving down. This is unfathomable to me since her drivers ed instructor was either absent or abusive. Including telling her she was a terrible driver and would never pass…half an hour before she went to her test anyways (in tears. Thanks, Universal Drivers: -1 star review). She got a perfect score btw. This is even more surprising given that M was out of commission and C had to rely on me as instructor. I refused to let her drive me anywhere except in empty parking lots. But I had faith. First, because S had passed (“Hallelujah!”). Second, because on the other end of the spectrum, the girls’ gramma “graduated top of her class” from her seniors driving test. Apparently, she was the only one there without a walker.[2] And third, because enough already Karma Police, “I’ve given all I have.”[3]
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[1] In my defense, it had fallen off because the glue doesn’t work in cold weather. Two months later the province eliminated the stickers altogether. Don’t even get me started…
[2] This being a driver who had the locks on her car replaced - twice - because she had “lost her keys” when, in fact, she just didn’t recognize a FOB as a key.
[3] Radiohead