Trials and Tribulations

    Trials and Tribulations

Suzanne Marsh

Adventure is my middle name or so it would seem when teaching my daughter to drive a car. I must have been insane to attempt to teach her, I am not a patient person by nature and for several months I wondered if I would retain my sanity. The first day was easy I simply showed her how to turn the car on and off, when she became familiar with that then I drove to an abandoned parking lot. I sat in the passenger seat as she quickly climbed into the driver's seat. I instructed her how to put the car in drive, and ease the gas pedal, and how to apply the brakes without giving either of us whiplash. That was a lesson in futility. She gunned the engine, and in a Ford Escort that was not the best thing she could have done. The Escort hopped across the parking lot like a giant gray frog. Finally, she applied the brakes, I silently drove home, I could not understand how an “A” student did not have any aptitude fir driving a car. I waited a few days while my jangled nerves calmed themselves, we went back to the parking lot.

Making the car go straight, was torture to me. First the Escort would hop along for several feet, then she would veer to the right, over correct and go to the left. We crept along at ten miles an hour, while she was attempting to make the car go straight. I began to understand why my dad was a bad choice to teach my mom to drive, like my daughter she had no idea how to make the car go in a straight line. My reasoning was if she could do advanced algebra, she could certainly drive in a straight line...scratch that theory. The thought of taking her out on the streets once she managed to learn to control the car, scared the living bejabbers out of me.

The next trip to the parking lot the Escort went in a semi straight line, so fool that I am I decided to teach her to make left and right hand turns, after that she would be ready to at least go up our street one block. It helps when your child knows her left from her right, that was not her strong suit. I explained to her to let the car do the work and let the wheel glide through her hands, keeping her hands on the wheel. I stood more of a chance talking to the Escort than explaining how to make to turns to her. The right hand turn she swung too soon, and to wide. The left-hand turn turned my brown hair almost white! Hand signals, which are part of the driver's test seemed to be more like smoke signals to her. She had the right blinker on while making a left-hand turn. I told her that was not correct, she said I was picking on her. I told her to go seat in the passenger seat, we were going home.

I had been telling my husband about our daughter’s lack of coordination, he agreed to take her out on the weekend. He came home with a wild-eyed look on his face, shaking his head, she thundered in, ran past us, up to her bedroom. It took me half an hour to calm her down, and an hour to sooth my husband before I asked the dread question: “what happened?”

The words began to tumble out of his mouth:

“She damn near put us in the canal, just as she was almost to the bridge she turned to quick,

I grabbed the steering wheel. We almost went into the canal. I am not taking her back out

until she has better control of the car, and even then, I am not sure I want to experience

that again.”

He sat quietly for several moments:

“We could send her to driving school, at least they have a brake on the other side of the car.”

I thought that was a great idea except that our budget was already so tight it squeaked.

“We can’t afford that; this is a do it ourselves project. Buck up, she’ll take her test

and pass it with flying color!”

He mumbled under his breath:

“Before or after she turns both of us into white haired crazies?”

I snickered at that:

“Before, I hope, she simply is not well coordinated, left and right are a mystery.”

He shook his head as he ambled off to watch television.

Several days later, I decided to brave a busy street, not that busy but enough to see if she was making progress. I think I should have taken the least path of resistance, namely driving to the grocery store myself, but I convinced myself that she did the practice. She pulled out of the drive carefully, promptly turning on her left-hand signal, I reached over and put on the right turning signal. This was not boding well, and I knew her driving to the grocery store, which was roughly three blocks from the house would be a hazard to everyone between point “A” and point “B”. We got onto Main Street; she was going fifteen miles an hour in a thirty. I told to give it more gas. That was not the smartest thing I could have said. She gave it gas, and the Escort jumped and off we went. I looked in the review mirror, only to see a truck driver shaking his head and laughing. This was no laughing matter, at least not with me in the passenger seat, I think my fingernails are still embedded in the arm rest. We finally arrived at the bank, where I needed to make a payment on the Escort. She went through the bank literally. I remember screaming hysterically:

“Hit the brake, the brake, the pedal on the left, not the right.”

We were now embedded in the bank wall. The police arrived; I was beyond hysterics at this point. The police officer tried to calm me down by telling me everything would be fine, just relax. That was the wrong thing to say:

“How can I relax, she just put the car through the bank!”

He had me sit down:

“Lady, look, I have a teenager I am teaching to drive, he put our family car in a ditch, buck up

she’ll learn to drive.”

Three months later, at twelve o’clock, she took her driver's test all I could get out of my mouth was:

“You’ve got this.”