Baby, You Can Drive My Car

To the outside observer, it may seem like my middle child has everything he needs to be a successful teenager in West Deptford. Observe the evidence:

1. He has a beautiful girlfriend who seems crazy about him–and she goes to a different school, which allows him time to hang with his friends.
2. He has gainful employment (at Mickey Dee’s) that allows him ample flexibility (they write the schedule around his track meets) and affords him sufficient pocket money to date on a regular basis (see point A).
3. As of his 17th birthday (approximately two weeks ago), he is a licensed driver. It’s a Cinderella license, of course, but I know he feels about it the same way teenagers have felt about it through the years–it’s his ticket to freedom.

But upon careful consideration, it seems as though he is now in dire need of something else–his own car.

That’s not to say he hasn’t had options. His dad has been generous about lending out his Toyota, and once, in what must have been a moment of desperation, my son has even stooped to borrowing my minivan (I think he wore a disguise). We do try to accommodate him with the vehicles we have. But he–and almost everyone else in creation–seems to think he needs a car of his own.

Now, I guess it’s hard for me to be sympathetic. You see, I didn’t even have my license in high school, let alone a car. I did take the requisite driver’s education course in junior year, and my best friend and I even had behind the wheel together (which is a testament to the patience of Harry Donnelly, our gym teacher turned driving instructor). But his lessons never extended to parallel parking, so I took the test cold–and promptly hit a dreaded orange cone.

I spent the entire next day facing friends’ queries–“Hey, how’d you do?” I’d mumble something about failure and that darned cone, knowing in my teenage heart-of-hearts that I could never live through such a day of humiliation again. So I didn’t even take the driver’s test until I was in college (and yes, I passed, thank you very much).

But actually, back when I was in school, a car of one's own was more of a luxury, not the necessity it‘s made out to be today. In fact, when the class of way-back-when graced the hallowed halls of West Deptford High, there was no “Bulldog lot” for underclassmen parking. The main parking lot belonged to the teachers and seniors, and the overflow–as well as any junior lucky enough to be driving–parked on the dirt lot upfront.

There just didn’t seem to be as much of a demand for parking, because a car didn’t seem to automatically go along with a license. And when someone in my class did get a car, it was a $500 fixer upper or a hand me down from his dad. No one was driving a brand new car, at least, not anyone I knew. We carpooled, we bummed rides from friends, we took the bus, we walked. And somehow or other, we got just as far as the kids today do.

My very first car was a gift from my brother-in-law, a beat-up Chevy with a fantastic sound system that he passed on to me. That car was stolen from its spot under the Ben Franklin Bridge, where it was parked while I attended classes at Rutgers. When I told him the news, my brother-in-law asked, “Did they take the radio too?” as if our thieves were kind enough to remove the tape deck and leave it at the curb.

The first car I bought myself was a used Volkswagen Super Beetle, purchased with my B. Dalton Bookseller earnings (remember them?) and the remainder of a college grant (transportation was an approved expense). I think it cost the princely sum of $1,500, and I often had to park on a hill and pop the clutch to get it started. But with the windows down and the radio blaring, I felt a bit of the freedom my middle child now seeks.

Handing over your car keys to your child is a strange rite of passage, one that doesn’t come as easily as it sounds. Oh, sure, there’s the convenience of it–for example, he can drive himself to that job at McDonald’s, saving me from waking up at 5:30 a.m. on Sundays. But sometimes I think I’d trade all the convenience in the world for a little more control, a little more hovering. A little more time before goodbye.

Years ago I wrote a quiz for Good Housekeeping titled "Is Your Teen Ready To Drive?" I took it again today, and the results indicated my son is good for the go. So we’re checking Craigslist and the want ads, keeping our eyes open for a good deal.

Of course, now I know better.  That quiz should be called “Are You Ready for Your Teen To Drive?”  Because ready or not, here they grow.