Lesson drives home a point: We’re ready

Icajoled my teenage son into going with me to Ikea to pick up some storage bins by promising to let him drive. The open road is tantalizing to him at age 151⁄ But for starters, I thought, we’d try a parking lot. A big, crash-free parking lot, empty on a weekday night. Hence, Ikea. An hour later, we were through the checkout line, back to the SUV and swapping seats for the first time. I took a deep breath — when I teach Sawyer things, like how to do laundry and cook, I tend to talk down to him, as if he’s still a little kid. I had vowed not to do that this time — even if my life flashed before my eyes.

“What’s the first thing you do?” I asked him.

“Turn it on,” he said, reaching forward for the key in the ignition. Nope. “Oh,” he said, reaching for his seat belt.

This was Sawyer’s first time behind the wheel, but we had been building up to it.

Since he was about 13, I’ve been explaining how to change lanes and what I look for when I approach an intersection. I pointed out smart moves by me and dumb moves by other drivers.

“What street are we on?” I would ask on the way to rehearsal. “How would you get home from here?” I would pull up to a four-way stop and explain how I knew when to go. Now, I knew it was time to go. We lurched out of the parking space, jumpy at first but then smoother, as he got used to the accelerator and brake.

He made right turns and lefts, parked and backed out, parked and backed out.

I relaxed more in my seat. He went out onto the real street in the connecting industrial park, his eyes darting between the rearview and side mirrors.

I was surprisingly calm. Here he was, not a little kid anymore. He didn’t even have to bring his seat forward.

He pulled around another curb, a little tight. “Did I hit it?” he asked. Trust me, honey, you’ll know if you hit the curb. I turned to Sawyer from the passenger seat.

“Have I ever told you about the first time I went driving with my dad?”

He came to a stop — and shook his head no.

“I was the same age you are now. Dad had picked me up at school after softball practice. On the way home, he pulled over on a side street in our neighborhood.

“‘YES!’ I thought as we opened the doors to Mom’s silver station wagon at the same time. I grinned nervously at him as we passed each other at the car’s hood.

“I pressed gently on the gas and stayed to the right side of the road, but then my dad said, ‘OK, take a right.’

“Now what he should have said was, ‘OK, slow down and take a right’ — really, I blame him.

“I went wide, bounced up over the opposite curb and barely missed clipping the stop sign. I jerked the steering wheel to the right, bouncing down off the sidewalk and coming to a jerky stop in the middle of the street. “I burst into tears. “Dad had both hands braced on the dashboard in front of him. I could see the vein pulsing in his left temple. He let his breath out slowly and then very calmly asked, ‘Have you ever driven before?’

“I shook my head, flinging tears in both directions.

“You see, I had been taking driver’s ed at school. My dad had assumed that I had been behind the wheel.

“I had learned the rules of the road. And my teacher had had us memorize every major street north from Bell Road, which seemed like the end of the Earth back then, and south to Baseline Road. Streets were on the east side, avenues on the west.” (Turns out, that’s still almost all you’ll need to know today, a million years later.)

“We had watched films like ‘Red Asphalt.’ In that one, you see someone’s insides being picked up off the sticky roadway and plopped into a plastic bag.

“I would bury my head in my arms on my desk, willing myself not to puke. “But I had never actually ... driven.” Sawyer was trying not to laugh. “So,” I said, “my dad started over. Here’s how to make a turn, right and left. I stopped crying. We spent the next half-hour circling our street, to the

right and then to the left in a figure eight.

“I pulled into the driveway, pretty confident but — look out, the garage door! I slammed on the brakes just inches away from hitting it.

“My dad went straight to the refrigerator for a beer.” Sawyer laughed. OK, I said, pointing ahead. Try it again. I had read up on how best to coach Sawyer through this. How to break down the motions that, after a few months on the road, he’d do automatically. The toughest part is that there’s a lot to watch: the front, rear, left and right of the car, the instrument panel, the road and other cars, ahead of and behind you, and either side.

“You just wiped out a minivan,” I said, grinning. But more often I said, “Nicely done.”

Unlike my dad, I wouldn’t even need a beer after this.

Of course, I thought, as Sawyer inched up to a parking-lot stop sign and looked left, right and then left again, the idea of him behind the wheel of a 2-ton vehicle careening down the highway at 60 miles per hour also terrifies me. (In my mind, it’s all “Red Asphalt.”)

Even if he’s a good driver, I’ll worry about the idiots on the road.

But he’s ready for this. He does his homework, takes out the trash without being hounded (much) and monitors his cellphone use so he doesn’t go over his data allotment.

I’m ready, too. I’m tired of chauffeuring him from school to rehearsal, to friends’ houses — one in Apache Junction, where even I don’t know the street names — and back, to the movies, to capoeira.

Sawyer pulled over, and we traded spots again.

Out for dinner that night, I told him about getting my first car for high-school graduation. I showed him a picture on my cellphone — a two-seater 1978 Fiat X/19, white with a black pop-off top. My parents paid $1,700 for it.

The waiter stopped for our order — wings and a salad for me, pulled barbecue pork sandwich and fries for him.

For Sawyer, I had always thought it would be cool to get a used pickup. I often pointed out cool old trucks on the road. He always seemed to like the idea.

Sawyer’s been saving his money. I’ve told him I’ll match whatever he’s saved.

But then: “You know, Mom,” Sawyer said, dipping a french fry into ketchup, “I’m actually really interested in a motorcycle.”

Um, waiter? I looked around. I’ll take that beer now.

PUZZLES, D8