I have been a licensed driver for 26 years, which makes me feel really old. My oldest son, who is 17, this week passed the one year mark as a licensed driver, which makes him feel really cool.
Thankfully, the first year behind the wheel has been relatively uneventful for him, with no collisions or tickets. He’s already expensive enough just being on our insurance and with the cost of refueling his truck, so we’ve been fortunate so far.
I still worry when he drives away from home, heading to school or basketball practice, though I’m hopeful that every mile on the road makes him that much of a better driver.
On the rare occasions when he drives my wife and me somewhere, he certainly has flashbacks to his driving test at the DMV – except he surely didn’t whine to the instructor like he does to us.
“10 and 2!” I call out when I notice his hands are not in the proper position on the steering wheel. Being a cool teenager, he often drives at 6 or 12 – meaning one hand is at the top or bottom of the steering wheel. That doesn’t fly when mom and dad are in the car.
My wife often sits in the back seat when our son drives us, as she apparently feels safer if she can see less of what he’s doing in the front seat.
“Don’t adjust your radio!” one of us will say. “The speed limit is 25 in a residential area!” another will chime in. “What is this crusty piece of food on the floorboard?” we’ll add.
He does not like having co-pilots and we do not like having a distracted driver. If he ever complains too much about our complaining, our complaining wins because we are the parents.
For the most part, our driving son seems responsible behind the wheel. But he is 17 and thinks he knows way more than he does. I know this because I was once a 17-year-old driver who thought I was the king of the road.
Back in the 80s, much of my time behind the wheel was spent cruising up and down San Benito Street.
My stereo was loud, my hands weren’t always at 10 and 2 and I may or may not have gone 25 in a residential zone. I didn’t have a cell phone or iPod to distract me, but there were still distractions, like loud music and friends in the vehicle with me.
One big difference between my son and me, though, is the cleanliness of our vehicles (at least when I was in high school).
As the aforementioned crusty food example shows, his truck becomes a garbage truck, with empty or partially-empty water bottles and fast food bags and random school papers and straw wrappers littering the cab.
When I was a teenage driver, I’m pretty sure I washed my truck three times a week and Armor-All’d the tires twice a week and wiped the dust off of it five times a week.
It had to look good; and it only looked good when it was clean.
Unfortunately, that cleanliness did not stop me from getting into two or three fender-benders – none of which were my fault, seriously – and eventually I moved on to a regular car.
With one year down and many more to go, I pray every day that my son’s safe driving record continues. I don’t even care if he keeps his truck clean as long as his record stays clean.
