- submitted by L.Keenan on 10/01/2008
Please Don't Let My Son Drive. Ever.
By Linda Keenan
The Insurance Institute for Highway Safety recently came out, urging states across the country to up the driving age to 17 or even 18. I thought I'd give my perspective on the driving age from three different moments in time: when I was 16, when I was 30 (before I had my son), and now at 38, as a mom. The anecdotes I mention are all real, not imagined.
Linda, Age 16: I passed! On the very first try. I love leaving school at lunch in my crappy car. I get a total rush when Werewolves of London comes on the radio! I rev up the gas and push the speed limit, just a little, and yell "Ah-ooh, Werewolves of London!"
Michael was mad the other day on the way to get him his black and white cookie at Bagel Baron, because when it came on, I almost drove off the road. But what do I care? I've got my license!
Abby just had a "talk" with me about my driving and how bad it is and how dangerous I am. I'm not trying to be dangerous. I just zone out a little when my songs come on. That's why I blew through that stop sign and the cop yelled at me and I cried. Lucky I didn't get a ticket.
Can they keep you out of college for...oh shit. That woman's not stopping at the light. She's going to...{crash, commotion, I'm basically in pajamas because I was joyriding...} Mommy's going to freak. I just totaled the car. At least it wasn't my fault. Phew.
Linda, Age 30: Whenever I hear they want to increase the driving age, I think "God what a pathetic nanny state we've become." I mean, are we ever going to let kids grow up and make their own mistakes?
My boyfriend Steve and I take long trips on the motorcycle with me on the "bitch pad." Did you know that Steve was 10 when he first drove a motorcycle by himself back in Maine? If I had to guess, Steve is a better driver because of all that experience.
Linda, Age 38: Please. Please don't ever let my baby drive any motorized vehicle except a bumper car?
The other day I was talking to this young guy from Dorchester working for the power company and he was telling me about his latest motorcycle and when Frank ran over to us, I said to the guy under my breath, "let's not talk about motorcycles in front of my son."
My husband Steve doesn't want Frank to even know what motorcycles are. When he sees them and asks us what they are, Steve doesn't even respond. And Steve rode for 25 years. And I rode with him on the "bitch pad" for 10 of those years. Now we almost exclusively call them "donor-cycles," what doctors greedy for young, fresh organs call motorcycles.
But forget about bikes. What about the cars? Steve just told me he wants a speed sensor if Frank ever drives. (He actually said "IF Frank ever drives.") This is the guy who used to hitchhike back and forth to college in the late 70's.
I said, "Did you know that driving is the leading cause of death for kids 15-20?' He said "Are you kidding?" Then he added that we'd have a breathalyzer in the car too.
You know, I live in the suburbs, I drive around all day, I watch these teenagers roar around and it terrifies me. Not just the one who smashed his car into the tree in front of our house a few months back. But also the ones who are all packed in, like in a clown car, having a marvelous hormone-fueled teenaged time.
I just wish they weren't being teenagers at 45 mph. Because I remember me at that age. I wouldn't let me near a car. Or my baby.
He has 12 years to go. And you know what my secret, fantastical hope is? That because of sky-high oil prices, we'll have to soon revert to a walking-based, near-agrarian lifestyle, where the fastest thing Frank will be allowed to drive is a tractor.
Linda Keenan is a contributing writer at Burbia. Linda worked 7 years as a head writer/senior producer for various programs on CNN. Before that she worked as a writer/producer for Bloomberg TV. She now writes satire, primarily about parenting culture, at Thoroughly Modern Mommy
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