Momservation: He’s my kid when he aces a final. He’s your kid when he misses the toilet again.
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I am an official back seat driver.
Actually, make that an official shotgun seat driver. If I’m sitting in the back seat, although it feels much safer, I can’t stomp my phantom break trying to get my kid not to take a turn at 25 mph.
Yep, it’s permit driving time. My 15 ½ year-old son is driving me around like Miss Daisy. Rides to the store. Rides to and from school. Rides to pick up his sister. Rides to go buy more tampons. There is no errand to short, too long, or too never-mind. He’s got a ticket to drive and he don’t care where we go.
To be fair, Logan’s a good driver. Don’t tell…but I’ve been letting him drive around the neighborhood since before his 15th birthday. His 14 year-old sister too. (Sorry about the lawn job, BTW Mrs. Taylor. It takes a few times until they learn spatial sense. But better your begonias than my left fender. Much cheaper replacement cost.)
Logan did everything early as a baby—rolled over, crawled, walked, talked—well before any kids his age. Hubby used to say I put him through Baby Boot Camp so that I would witness all his first milestones before our childcare provider did. Yeah, kinda.
But when he learned to ride a bike at three and was hitting in-the-park home runs in T-ball and scoring at will in Peewee soccer we started to realize that being ahead of the curve is just Logan.
So you could say we were hardly surprised when we got a phone call from our son during his required one hour Beginning Driver Training lesson.
“Hey Dad. The instructor wants to know if he can take me for a two-hour lesson that will take me out of the neighborhood and include freeway driving.”
“Um, you aren’t driving right now are you?”
“Oh, no. The instructor had me pull over to call you.”
“Oh good,” Hubby breathed relieved that he hadn’t hired a hack to teach his son to drive. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Well, add driving to the long list of things Logan is freakishly good at,” Hubby told me when he got off the phone.
“Add driving to the long list of things his mother is excellent at teaching him,” I smiled smugly.
“Because it’s sink or swim with you! You had him driving and merging during rush hour and trying to park in Loehman’s Plaza during the dinner rush!”
“Hey. Don’t doubt the methods of the sensei. Walking at 8 months. First word was “helicopter.” Potty trained at a year and a half. Getting kicked up to Advanced Driver Training on his first try—this is what I do.”
“Alright then sensei,” countered Hubby. “How about the master getting her young grasshopper to keep his room clean then?”
“THAT is not what I do. The cleaning genre is not my level of expertise.”
“Explains why the dog is afraid of the mop and vacuum cleaner…”