I recently registered Stephanie for driving lessons.
Before I continue, I have three points to make:
1. Stephanie is my 22 year old daughter (whom I’m sure you’ve read about because she’s just full of therapy-induced reasons for me to vent).
2. Driving lessons are so much more expensive today than they were when I took them (around the time when the Model T was being introduced).
3. I realize that many of you have children that fall in the “younger-than-Stephanie” age category, so you may not relate to this. But I suggest you read on anyways. Consider it one of those “oh this is what I have to look forward to” tips.
After dishing out a gazillion dollars on lessons for Stephanie to learn how to drive, she also got something that I would have gladly paid for her NOT to get. It’s called the LEARNER’S PERMIT. Also known as the permit to do serious damage to my mental health.
The five words I’ve come to hate? “But I need to practice.”
Those five words put me in the passenger’s seat of my own car, which is exactly where the stress comes in.
The fact that all bad drivers think they’re great (including my mother, but that’s another story) proves to me that Dustin Hoffman’s character in Rain Man (“I’m an excellent driver”) has nothing to do with autism.
(Tonight’s prayer: please god – I mean, God – do I have to be a mom every fricken day of my life? And God, since I have your attention. Can you do something about Dakota’s crotch-sniffing habit? It’s embarrassing. If she absolutely needs a habit, I’d rather she smoke cigarettes. PS. Dakota is not my boyfriend. Greg is my boyfriend. Dakota is my dog. Why don’t you know this already?)