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Driving the World Crazy
“Here are the car keys. Go pick up the kids after school,” my Mom said, tossing me the keys on my way out the door.
“But Mom, I’m only 14. I don’t know how to drive,” I said.
“You’ll figure it out,” was her only reply, looking at me like I was an idiot. “Your Dad learned when he was 12.”
I was in disbelief. “Yeah, but he lived on a farm; we live in New Jersey.”
“Stop arguing! You need to get going.”
With that, my adventure in driving started.
My folks had pretty much checked out on parenting when I was 10 or 11, leaving the job of being the adult in the family to me. I took care of my infant brother, got breakfast for my sister and brothers, made lunches for everyone, and put the kids to bed. I grew up fast.
I always hated it when my Dad would say, “Yeah, but you’re just a kid,” especially when I got to be 15 or 16. I hadn’t been a kid in years, and it was because of my parents — not my fault.
I had never driven before, so I took my time driving myself to school. I had watched my parents and other adults drive. There was no magic to it. So I carefully backed out of the driveway, only driving on a little bit of the grass. I managed to miss the trash cans, so that was good. The braking was a little rough, but I eventually got…
