Driving Miss Daisy

We had another one of those “rites of passage” days today.  They seem to be coming hot and heavy on the heels of each other lately.

We made the trip to the DMV this morning.  We had all our paperwork, after having to go to the pit of hell health department to get another copy of his birth certificate yesterday.  It appears that my underwear drawer filing system has a few holes in it.

So we all gave up our Saturday morning sleep-in, which is big sacrifice in our house because weekend sleep-in time is sacred, and ventured into the land that time forgot.  The place where old hairstyles go to die – the Department of Motor Vehicles.

You can see all kinds of things at the DMV, including:

• 5 year olds with pacifiers.  What the shit is that?  A complete abdication of parental responsibility?
• Someone try to register a most-likely stolen car.
• Feathered and candlestick-curled hair.
• People in their pajamas.  In public.  Pajamas are not street clothes, people!
• One boy gaining the ability to drive, albeit only under supervision at this point.  Baby steps.

So on the way home, after we got off the freeway, I pulled into a gas station and got out of the car.  I told him he could drive us the rest of the way home.  His eyes got really big and his butt was so puckered he could have made a diamond, but he did well.  Really well!  Now we’re looking at cars because holy shitballs, the price for insurance for him to drive our new-ish cars is highway robbery!  He’s going to be like every other teenager out there and drive a beater until he can afford to pay for his own.  Another rite of passage!

There aren’t going to be many of these left, the rites of passage.  There’s graduation, which is fast approaching.  Then college and graduation from there.  First apartment.  First “real” job.  Getting married.  Babies.  Which means Grandbabies, which means I will be officially OLD.  Because it’s all about me, really.

Meanwhile, I’m going to let him drive my daisy around for a change.