My son is learning to drive. Next week, the horribly expensive, but oh so necessary driver's ed class will occupy his time. After, he'll have six hours of one-on-one in-the-car instruction. And then he'll have his driver's license.
T has diligently taken our son on the road over the past year, slowly coaxing him away from familiar Dunwoody roads onto the highway and then the interstate. Last evening was a first - A drove us all from Dunwoody to Smokey Bones in Kennesaw, a teen and tween favorite for celebrating very excellent grades.
I had a glass of wine. Before we left.
I studiously avoided looking at what he was doing, where we were going, and what was around us. Because we were on I-285, then I 75, then the craziness of Barrett Parkway. And back again.
"Okay, now you're going to merge. Speed up. Speed up." The car jerked sharply to the left, wavered, and settled into a lane.
"Watch your speed. That's a light ahead. Slow down. Slow down. STOP!!!!!"
"Watch the road signs. You'll see that this lane ends up ahead, so go ahead and move over to the left as soon as it's clear. Don't slow down! The other cars will block you."
"Turn left here." "Here?" "No, there." "Here?" "TURN LEFT NOW!"
My husband has a steel-clad gut because I was a trembling, anxious, terrified mess from start to finish.
In the Knitternall family, T has the job of teaching the kids to drive. He can handle it. I can't.