Sharing my car with a newly licensed teen
There are a few turns of phrase that strike fear into the heart of any parent.
They include “But I have to go NOW!” and “My tummy hurts.” And “What’s wrong with fishy?”
Here’s the latest addition to my own personal list: “Dad, can I borrow the car?”
My 16-year-old daughter recent received her G2 licence, which means she’s free to drive without her white-knuckled, petrified father sitting in the passenger seat pointing out any and all potential obstacles and threats.
“I know the squirrel is in the tree, but you never know when those little bastards are going to make a run for the smushed doughnut in the passing lane!!”
My kid is actually a relatively good, if inexperienced, driver. But I still worry about her safety, largely because of the rest of you morons out there: I’ve seen most of you drive and it’s a remarkable collection of nose-pickers, texters and those dedicated to the wanton disregard for the rules of the road.
It’s not just the safety issues that make me a reluctant car lender, however; it’s the state my car returns in after being straight-up wrecked by a teenager.
First, there is crap all over the car. Food wrappers on the passenger seat. Partially empty drink containers in the cup holders. Kids have always been hard on cars — my wife’s family truckster still stinks like spilled milk and crushed goldfish crackers, years after my children stopped regularly consuming both — but this feels like deliberate sabotage of my mental state.
Then there is the issue of my seat. As someone who drives quite a bit and is now officially kinda old, having good car ergonomics is paramount. Once I get things dialed in perfectly, I can thrive in my four-wheeled temple for hours.
Unfortunately, my kid is several inches shorter than me with the legs of a garden gnome (love you, honey). The way she slams the seat toward the steering wheel requires me to perform a sort of awkward modern yoga pose — The Painful Sideways Dad — just to get in the car. The rear and side view mirrors provide an excellent view of my nose hair and the car’s side panels respectively.
It’s also clear that my daughter has a very socialist view on the concept of property ownership.
“My car” quickly morphed to “the car” and finally to “our car.” I’m now forced to schedule important trips — like beer store runs — around the complex social schedule of a mobile teenager. Thankfully, there’s a bar within walking distance.
Of course, my kid has a solution to my complaints and it comes in the form of another question, this one more comical than terrifying.
“Dad, will you buy me a car?”