One more tip about teaching teens to drive: in my experience, the first hour is not too hairy since you're in a parking lot. But hours two through eight, give or take, are a Big Drag. I think it's really important to be calm and patient, to let them know that you don't expect them to execute a new motor skill flawlessly and that you have confidence in their ability to learn. I think I've done a reasonable job of staying calm and encouraging this time around, but OH MY GOODNESS in those early weeks I get out of the car all weak in the knees.
Maybe this will not be true for you. Maybe you are a less nervous passenger than I am; maybe you live in a smaller town than I do; maybe your teen is a whiz at picking up new motor skills. But if you feel the prickings of despair in those hours, remember that it will get better quickly.
Soon you will be able to have delightful conversations in the car WHILE your teen is driving a route that he used to decline, to your secret relief, as "too scary."
We were leaving the gas station this evening when I realized I'd forgotten about the median at the intersection. "Zoop backwards," I told him, demonstrating the zooping with my hand, "and we'll go out the other side. He backed up and said, "I have zooped." "Huh," I thought to myself, "zoop has a regular perfect participle." I didn't say it out loud, because I am accustomed to keeping my geeky moments quiet, but as he pulled forward he said, "Zoop conjugates regularly."
My work here is done.
We chatted as we drove, talking about other -oop verbs. All the examples we could think of are regular: scoop, loop, swoop, whoop. We talked about what the participle might look like if it were irregular. We talked more about linguistics (when is it appropriate to accost innocent bystanders about irregular plurals?), and then about math, and then about his project for the geography fair. "I need a striking way to make the Zimbabwean flag," he said. "Frosting," I suggested, thinking that cake might be a hit at the geography fair. "Not frosting," he said, and explained why. We turned into the driveway and I said again, loudly, "Frosting!"
"Mom," he said with mock sternness as he put the car in park, "if you can't be quiet in the car you'll have to walk home." And as I laughed out loud I thought about the pleasures of family life: shared trials that turn into shared jokes, shared interests that bubble quietly in all of our minds, and shared drives that pass by in a blink, full of pleasant conversation and free of menacing mailboxes.
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