Are We There Yet?
She holds the title of world's worst back-seat driver
Lori Clinch

Last Saturday started out nicely enough. My hair did just what I wanted it to, my fat clothes still fit, and the morning sun was breathtaking as it filtered through my dirty windows.

I found my keys, grabbed my purse and prepared to head off for errands. I was a woman on a mission on a bright sunny day, and it wasn't until I opened the garage door that I felt the wind leave my sail.

One minute I was singing "Natural Woman" and the next I couldn't find my breath as I saw that my 17-year-old son was waiting for me behind the wheel of my cherished Suburban. "C'mon!" he exclaimed as he honked the horn, "Let's go!"

"What do you mean, 'Let's go?' " I asked with dismay, "Where do you think you're going?"

"I need to go downtown and I'm catching a ride with you."

"Why can't you catch a ride in your own vehicle?"

"Because," he responded as he rolled his eyes, "it's in the shop and that's where I need a ride to, remember?"

I remembered giving birth to him, I remembered him driving his Big Wheel down the walk, and I most definitely remembered what it was like on the first day that he manned a vehicle. What I didn't remember was telling him that I'd take him downtown and I most definitely did NOT remember telling him that he could drive us there.

I slowly climbed into the passenger seat, held tight to my purse and stared at him with raw fear. My mouth was dry, I was afraid to blink, and I was shaking like a leaf as I choked back a sob. "You'll go easy on me," I asked as I buckled myself in, "won't you?"

"Mother, I'm like the best driver in my class," he scoffed.

I wondered if there was a competition where it was officially determined that he was the best driver in his class. Was there a little after-school contest? Did they have judges and referees? And if he truly did win this athletic event, then what kind of drivers were the other drivers that he defeated?

"I can do this," I said as I tried to comfort myself. After all, it had been months since the last time I'd been subjected to his driving, and the mental wounds had barely healed.

"Parents have been riding with their children since horses pulled carts," I said out loud. I then closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and prayed hard for an out-of-body experience.

Turns out I have a horrible reputation as the world's worst back-seat driver. My family says that I'm emotional, critical and lack the diligence to sit quietly as we maneuver through traffic. Yet, you show me someone who thinks that screaming out "Oh dear God, we're going to die!" is not appropriate, and I'll show you someone who hasn't sat shotgun with a driver who turned around in the seat so that he could gaze longingly at points of interest while maneuvering through five lanes of traffic.

It just isn't good for a woman's mental health.

"You do see that car, don't you?" I asked my son as I pumped the floorboard with my right foot.

"You know I do," he responded in a singsong voice. "And I see that house, that tree and that ever-so-fine paint job on that Jeep Wrangler over there."

"What about the stop sign, do you see the stop sign?"

"Mom," he responded with all of the love of a carburetor, "why don't you just sit there and enjoy the ride. It's your job to give me a chance to screw up."

"Oh my gosh!" I exclaimed as I grabbed the door handle and again pumped my imaginary brake. "Look at that car swerve; what kind of fool hits the sauce at this hour of the morning? Whoa, cut to the right! There's a bump in the road. You're too close to that car, you're way too close to that car! You're going to suck the paint right off that car's exterior! That light's going to turn yellow, that light's almost red, stop the car, stop the car, STOP THE CAR! Without me you never would have stopped the car, would you have?"

When, at long last, we pulled up to the repair shop, he climbed out of the car, told me he'd check me out later, and walked away as if he'd not just shaved years off his terrified mother's life.

If he's the best driver in his class, then we're all in a world of hurt.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.