by Peg Cucci
Three of my four children are licensed drivers.

The State of Illinois has said to both of these people that they are
competent to be on the road, behind the wheel. I send the State people money every year in the form of state income taxes, in part to support this type of activity. Obviously, everyone here is nuts.

These children are my babies. They ate pablum in my home. They played with their toes and nibbled on their fingers. They grew out of those behaviors and went to school. They learned to read and some other things. They formed friendships. They grew some more and reached sixteen years of age.

THEN, the State of Illinois stepped in and said, “You’re Free! Here’s your ticket to the great adventure of life! You are OLD enough to DRIVE!”

Milestones to millstones
The day one’s child becomes a licensed driver is a very interesting day in the life of any parent. It is a milestone for them and a millstone for you.

Seldom do two people who have close bonds view the same event from such opposite vantage points. At least, this was the case at our house.

I KNOW these people. I know what their closets look like. What does the State of Illinois know of their closets? Or care, for that matter? It is not against the law to have ten shirts, eight odd socks and an unidentifiable garment wadded into a medicine ball in your closet.

I know their eating habits. What does the State of Illinois know of grazing and fast food? Or care, for that matter? I know their time frames. What does the State of Illinois know of sleeping until 2 p.m.? (Maybe there is some awareness there. I can’t say for
sure.)

At any rate, these people who live sloppily, eat strangely and sleep
incessantly when allowed are now on the road. As a parent, I have found it mystifying. But the inevitable query, “Can I have the car?” breaks through the mist pretty fast.

“Can I have the car?” gets easier to deal with as the days go by, but the first time you hear it, usually on the way home from the licensing agency, is terrifying. There is no good reason to say, “no,” other than the fact that they have been licensed to drive for ten minutes.

This does not carry any weight for them. In their minds, they have been licensed to drive for lightyears.

So, I have given them the car for a trip over to friends’ houses to pick them up for a trip to what I hope and pray is not Cincinnati. I have nothing against Cincinnati, but I live in Chicago.

Laying down the law
I don’t know where they go on this first outing. No one does. They leave my driveway behind the wheel of my car, and that’s the important point.

Before the exodus, we have had some chats about THE RULES.

• Of course, the seatbelt must be worn.
• Of course, the passenger limit of the car must be observed.
• Of course, the driver must be mindful of the gas tank and indications that it is inadequately stocked.
• Of course, there is to be no loud radio playing.
• Of course, the speed limits must be obeyed.
• Of course , they will observe the curfew.
• Of course, there is to be no alcohol involved with my car in any way.
  

Of course, they have heard all this before and they GET IT,
they assure me. Safety, after all, is one of their primary concerns.

Right!

The vigil
Then, the moment of truth arrives. They leave. And that leavetaking is
momentous. It signals a new era for me, the era of vigil.

My husband and I have been keeping vigil for adolescents for several years now. It has taught me patience and a renewed sense of profound incredulity over the oblivion of some parents.

These children are OUT THERE and some parents GO TO BED. I can’t. I have tried, but my husband always wakes me up. He says, “You’re sleeping?! How can you sleep? She’s OUT THERE!” Then his vigil has ended and mine has begun. He goes to sleep and I wander about fretfully until the headlights appear in the driveway.

At first, we did this awkwardly, and with some rancor. I was unaccustomed to being wakened by him. It made me mad. But I now see the utility of the split-shift. It has given me quiet time to think of a rationale for the value of adolescent driving.

Adolescents are difficult to control externally. They are like gas. They
expand to fill the container in which they are placed. Without containers at all, they dissipate into the cosmos somewhere. So, containers are very important.

The perfect container
I think one of the best containers for a teen-ager is a car. It is
not necessary that the car BE THEIRS, but it is best if they can have access to one.

Teen-agers WANT THAT. They want it enough to unwad the stuff in the closet. They want it enough to eat dinner. They want it enough to rise at 7 a.m. in order to get to work on time. And they want it enough to come home by curfew, IF they understand that failing to do so will result in the loss of that access.

Are you getting my drift? Making a car available to a teen-ager gives the parent something to remove if things aren’t going as planned.
I thought, before my own children were licensed to drive, that people who made cars available to teen-agers were, frankly, NUTS ALTOGETHER!

Perhaps that is what happened; they drove me crazy. If that’s the case, I have gone completely mad, because when my third driver
was licensed I not only made the car immediately available to him, I
encouraged him to use it, after reviewing all the ways in which he could and would lose the privilege.

I plan to repeat this once more. I can’t thank the State of Illinois enough. My closets have never looked better.

Peg Cucci can be reached at Cucci6@aol.com.

 

©1999 Peg Cucci. All text and graphics are copyrighted and are protected by United States copyright law and international copyright law under the Berne Convention.

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