“Um, mom didn’t say anything about this,” my recently turned fifteen-year-old daughter said.
“That’s because she learned to drive in Chicago. All she knows is how to run people off the road. That’s why I’m the one who is going to teach you to drive. And we start with the two-finger wave.”
Still unsure of my instructions, my daughter places her hands on the steering wheel at the fabled ten and two position. Those magical numbers that are as much of driver’s education as the two-fingered wave. But if you want to teach your kids to drive right, certain things that are timeless.
“What now?” she asked.
“Now, put up two-fingers on your right hand if you are waving to someone on a sidewalk or riding a bike down to the fields.”
“The fields?”
“Look, this will go much faster if you just trusted me a bit.”
See, this is the stuff my wife will never teach our daughter about driving. For her, it’s all about running stop signs and ignoring traffic signals. I mean, I don’t really know, but since my wife grew up in Chicago, I’m pretty sure that’s how they teach driving there.
I drove there once and when I was done, I had to go find a priest. I’m not even religious. And although I’ve coached many of those things out of my wife, I assume that common disregard for your fellow motorist may run in the blood. When I rode with my father-in-law, he wasn’t happy until someone in the passenger seat was asking for last rites. So, I will be taking over the driving instruction for my daughter.
“This is dumb,” my daughter said.
“That’s just your blood talking. Remember, you’re half me and that’s the half that does the two-finger wave,” I said. “That’s the good part. Fight the dark side of yourself. That’s all your mom. Now let’s practice the two-finger wave.”
She did, reluctantly. Then we started counting them off. One and two, and one and two, and one and two, and oh no it’s not a pedestrian it’s someone on a tractor!
“Switch hands! Two-finger wave on the left!”
“What?” she said.
“If someone is in a car or a tractor and you pass them, you use the fingers on your left hand to wave. That’s because they pass you on the left and it’s common courtesy.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“If you ever want a set of car keys, you need to believe me.”
She waved with her left hand.
“Ok, now you can start the car,” I said. “Let’s take a few turns around the parking lot.” I was a bit disappointed that the school parking lot didn’t have any old men chewing on straw or diners that we could stop by and chat. But as this is my daughter’s first time behind the wheel, we don’t want her to get overwhelmed.
As we went, she discovered that the brake pedal is not the same as the gas pedal. I discovered that I should probably go find another priest. But she did really well on her first driving trip, all things considered.
She slammed on the brakes and we skidded to a stop. My seatbelt dug into my shoulder and I may have screamed. I’m not sure because I blacked out for a minute.
“I almost hit a squirrel!” she said.
“That’s good eating,” I said.
“Is mom ever going to teach me to drive again?”
I don’t think my daughter appreciates my southern driving instructions. But this is how it must be done because one day I won’t be in this car with her. She’ll be driving away all by herself, leaving me to watch her go. It will be small at first, a visit with her friends to go see a movie. But it’ll get bigger. One day, not so far off in the future, she’ll be driving herself to college. Then to graduation, then to her own apartment, her own job, her own life. I’ll be a forgotten text message on a phone.
“Now, did you wave at the squirrel before you almost hit it?” I asked.
“Dad!”
“It’s really just being polite, honey,” I said.
“I wish you would take this more seriously!”
See, that’s the thing about youth. They confuse humor as something silly, when in truth, it’s the greatest shield you will ever have. Good humor is as serious as a car wreck. It helps you get through those really tense and tough times. Times when you almost hit a squirrel, or your little girl starts seeing the road of freedom in front of her. Humor is what makes the journey manageable and enjoyable. Because one day, and she won’t even see it, she’ll remember her father teaching her to give a two-finger wave to a squirrel.
“I am taking this seriously,” I said. “Believe me, and my soon to go up insurance rates, I take this very seriously. Now let’s practice your parking.”
She takes another trip around the parking lot trying to find the perfect time to park. There are a million different spots, but she is indecisive. I’m patient and wait for her to make her choice. Finally, she does.
She comes in a bit fast and if there was another car anywhere near us, she would have smacked it. She’s crooked, and I’m hoping the squirrel is not out there judging us. But she’s happy with herself that she technically parked the car.
“Alright, give a two-finger wave,” I said to her.
“Why? There’s no one here!”
“Because you park like an asshole. A wave is going to make your life a lot easier. Remind me to go over the head nod tomorrow.”
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: Shutterstock