Preparing Your Teen for Driving Means Not Screaming

Growing up in the city I started using city transportation before I was twelve. By the time I was thirteen I was traveling from one end of the city to another and had memorized more bus route schedules than the French verbs I was supposed to be learning. Freedom was the bus pass my parents bought me, clutched tightly in my pale wee hands.

When I got older, I discovered the joys of taxi cabs. It wasn't until I needed legal identification when I was 18 (so I could go whoring at the bars) that I decided I should perhaps look into getting my drivers license.

City life spoiled me. While I may have got my learner's permit when I was 18, I didn't actually buck up and take my drivers test until Boo and I started to get serious. If I wanted to bump my ugly with his ugly it became pretty clear that I was going to have to drive out to see him on the nights when he couldn't make the trip into the city. I was just shy of my 20th birthday before I finally received my drivers license. Young love will move mountains. Or in my case, inspire me to learn how to drive.

My children, however, aren't blessed with a public transportation system at their disposal. Since they are stuck in the middle of buttfark nowhere, my husband and I have decided the best gift we can give them is their independence when they turn 16. They will need to know how to drive if they want to get part time jobs or go to the movies or do anything regular teens doing. Because let's face it, the wheels on this mom taxicab are running thin and I've got better things to do than chaffeur their arses around until they move out of my house.

Since Fric turned 14 this year, she is eligible for her learners permit. We've spent months encouraging her to prepare for the exam. When she turned 14, she was excited to take her exam. In theory. In reality, she wanted her permit to wave in front of her friend's noses but she was actually scared of taking the test and failing it.

I remember that type of fear. Self doubt. It can sabotage even the smartest people. I was straddling a fine line between encouraging my daughter to believe in herself and becoming a nag.

So last week, I decided to spring the test on Fric. I showed up at school, yanked her out of gym class and told her to brush her hair.

"Where are we going? Do I have a doctor's appointment I don't know about?" she queried while trying to untangle her sweaty hair.

"Well, you have an appointment. Sort of."

"What does that mean?"

"Guess what you are doing in about five minutes?

"What?"

"Taking your learners permit test! Whoot!" And then I did that embarrassing 'raise the roof' motion with my hands and completely cemented her opinion of me as the perpetually uncool mother.

"What??? But! I need to study!"

"Study schmudy. You've done that for months. You are a smart girl. You are READY. You just need to believe you can do this. Trust me, if I thought you weren't ready I wouldn't have put on a bra and ventured out in public to get you."

Luckily for me, the school is only three blocks from the local registries office and by the time she realized I was serious, I was already hopping out of the vehicle, telling her to hurry up.

Fric walked into the office looking a little like a deer caught in some headlights, but I ignored it. I was either going to be the greatest mother in the world in about thirty minutes or I was going to be the worst mother ever. I was like a Hollywood stage mom, pushing her kid in front of the camera whether her kid liked it or not.

A few moments later, Fric was walking towards the back of the office to take her test as I stood in front of the counter, cheering her on.

"You can do this Fric! Make Momma proud! Take your time! Use your brain!" I called.

"I kinda hate you right now," she called back.

"You're 14. You're supposed to hate me. Have fun!" I chirped back and then settled in to an odd smelling chair to await the outcome.

I may not have given Fric a chance to be nervous, but my guts were churning. The what-if's were on full attack. What if she failed? What if I pushed her to do something she wasn't ready for and I was too blind to see? What if she hated me forever?

Turns out, thirty minutes later, I was the best mom in the whole world. Fric bounced out from the back room all smiles and practically shouted, "I PASSED!!!"

Thank God because I was completely unprepared for the other option.

Sixty five dollars, some paperwork and one really bad drivers photo later, and my daughter is legally allowed to get behind the wheel of a car with supervision.

"I can't wait to show all my friends!" she crowed as she waved the white slip of paper around. "I have to call Dad! Thank you Mom! I got my learners!!" she squealed.

Score one for mother's intuition.

As we walked out of the office and headed to our vehicle, Fric walked towards the driver's side.

"Um, Fric? What are you doing?"

"I passed! I can drive now!"

"No, you can learn how to drive. You don't actually know how to drive. You know the rules. You don't know the road."

"But I have my permit now, so you can teach me."

"Um, no."

"What? Why not?" she demanded.

"Because I don't have a death wish. You can drive the lawn tractor. How's that?"

"Not funny Mom."



"Listen kid. I did my parental duty with believing in you, encouraging you and helping you study. My duty ends here. The rest is out of my hands and straight into your father's. He likes to walk on the wild side."

"But Moooooom!"

"Get in the back seat and buckle up baby. Back to school you go." And then I slid in the driver's seat and turned up the stereo to drown out the whining.

"Nice Mom. Dangle the carrot and then just yank it back. That's just mean."

Apparently I hadn't completely thought this drivers permit business through. I stupidly thought she'd be satisfied with her permit for at least thirty seconds before hounding me to hand her the keys to my car. I really am getting old and unhip.

All the way back to school she graded my driving. "You didn't shoulder check." "That was a stop sign Mom, not a yield sign." "The posted speed limit is 30. Not 50."

Almost a week later and she's still doing a running commentary on my driving. It's more annoying than when my parents would take me driving when I was a teen.

I'm starting to miss public transportation.

My daughter may have learned the rules of the road and passed her permit test but I think I learned the more valuable life lesson:

Never encourage your children to take their next life step unless you are fully prepared to let go of your car keys.

I know there is only so much stalling I can do. Sooner or later, I'm going to have to crawl into the passenger seat and let her have the wheel. A bus pass never sounded so magical before.

Happy Birthday To Me!

Thirty-five years ago today I popped into the world and ever since my older brother has wished he could smack me down like that game "Whack a Mole."

Happy birthday to me!

I wrote a post for my birthday but it's not here.

It's over on this blog. And I'd appreciate it if you would hop on over and read it. Think of it as your gift to me.

My gift to you? Well, it involves nudity.

You're welcome. (And I'm sorry. Heh.)

(Also: Big thanks to Avitable for learning how to speak Canadian on my birthday. He's a total keener.)

(Aaaand: Big thanks to Neil for explaining to the world why he hated me. He's my favourite douche.)

Furniture Wars: My Husband vs. Me

There are many things I love about my husband but his taste in furniture is not one of them. In fact, on more than one occasion, furniture shopping has almost lead to our divorce. I have happily threatened to beat him to death with cheap couch cushions on more than one occasion. He still twitches when ever he walks past an overstuffed sofa.

As he should.

When Boo and I moved in together, prior to marriage (because we were heathen sinners who didn't like having to commute an hour to see one an another to fornicate) we didn't have two nickels to rub together. Our home was filled with the not so lovely cast-offs my parents happily dumped in our laps. They happily handed us their old and saggy couches because we were doing them a favour. We were saving them the money it would cost them to haul their crap to the dump.

There was nothing terribly wrong with our free furniture, other than it was fantastically hideous and had been used as a trampoline by my siblings and I for more than a decade. Still, it was someplace to plant our arses and make out and since it was either the hand me downs or the floor, my soon to be husband and I graciously thanked my parents for their generosity.

I had no idea then that my husband was a furniture snob. Nor did I understand my husband's propensity and attraction for the ugliest furniture alive. I didn't learn that lesson until well after we married and we had enough scraped enough money together to buy our first pieces of brand new furniture.

Suddenly the agreeable and easy-going man I married morphed into a demon on a showroom floor. Nothing satisfied him, he picked everything apart and he became a penny pincher miser. He couldn't understand the value of picking out a quality piece of furniture that would last a lifetime when you could get something cheaper and uglier for less than half the cost.

After threatening to break down in tears, I finally gave in and let my husband decide on our new furniture as long as I could pick the colour. It was that or kill him but I couldn't stand the thought of sharing a bar of soap with gang of a manly looking women in our local prison.

That furniture didn't last long mostly because it was cheap I'm a raging shrew. After being swallowed alive by the cheap foam cushions more times than my heavily pregnant arse could stand I told my husband it was the couch or me. Since I still put out on a regular basis back then (heh) he wisely decided it was time for furniture that wouldn't send his wife into early labour.

Which meant round two in our furniture procuring journey. By now my husband learned the valuable lesson, you get what you pay for and was willing to pony up a little more money for something that wouldn't result in us paying for a chiropractor's child's university fund.

However, for as much as he'd grown in one direction he remained as obstinate and pigheaded in another. One couch after another, we couldn't agree. After visiting our fourth show room floor, I finally sat down and threatened to give birth on the most expensive couch I could find if he didn't start compromising a wee bit.

There is nothing like the thought of having to buy something expensive you hate because your wife's placenta rubbed all over it to inspire a man to cooperate.

That lead us to the furniture I'm currently sitting on. Ten years later and I loathe it as much as did when I first saw it being hauled off the delivery truck and into our home.

Welcome to my living room.

My back screams in pain every time I sit on them, there is a crater which my butt cheeks sink into and I can't stand the colour. I can't even blame my husband for their colour because it was my pregnant brain which decided dark navy blue fabric would be ideal for raising three children on.

There ought to be a law stating pregnant women should not be allowed to make any permanent expensive purchases when moments away from shooting a baby out their pooter. Just sayin'.

But my babies have wreaked havoc on the couch. I stupidly allow my children to sit on my furniture instead of banishing them to the floor like a smart adult would do and as such, the wear and tear on these pieces has forced me to start whining to my husband about needing new furniture.

The cushions are riddled with holes, mystery stains and more dog hair than what currently resides on my dog. It doesn't matter how often I clean the upholstery, these couches are well, gross.

I'm tired of flipping cushions and artistically draping throws on our couch whenever company comes over. Every day I stare at the holes in this couch arm and I lose a little bit more of my sanity. This ugly dirty blue couch is starting to suck my soul out. So I started campaigning for a new couch.

At first, my pleas fell on deaf ears. My husband has better things to spend his hard earned money on than a couch he'll only see once a month if he's lucky. However, I am persistent and after almost 14 years of matrimony, I've mastered the art of whining.

After a solid year of dropping hints about as subtly as bricks from the sky and scrimping to save money, I finally wore my husband down to agreeing to look at new furniture. Visions of couch sex and vibrating recliners danced through his mind all the way to the showroom.

(Don't judge me. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.)

There was one problem. I forgot about my husband's god awful taste in furniture and his penny pinching nature.

Round three at the furniture store has not been more pleasant than the previous dances.

My husband, well, he still likes ugly furniture.

I still have champagne tastes on a non-alcoholic beer budget.

And to make the couch choosing even more fun, we are on opposite ends of the upholstery spectrum. Boo insists on dark leather and I insist on a neutral fabric. He wants overstuffed and I want clean lines. He wants me to sell our children and animals to ensure the continued good health of our furniture and I'm still trying to add to the size of our brood.

Dogs. Children. Pot-bellied pigs. I'm not choosy, I just want more life under my roof to help chase away the death that constantly lingers.

In the end, and as always, it became a battle of the wills.

One which I think I lost. Again.

I'll find out tomorrow when our new couch arrives.

The new couch my husband wanted and I wasn't so keen on. But since he made the concession that it would be nice not to have furniture which makes us look like hillbillies and then coughed up the dough to pay for it,  I decided to take the bullet high road and just focus on the fact our new couch has no holes in it.

Yet.

I may not have won the furniture picking battle but I won the war in the end.

Here's to not having to do this again for at least another ten to fifteen years. And if my darling children so much as fart on this new couch, I'm selling them on eBay.

(If you have any tips on how you managed to convince your spouse to agree to the furniture of YOUR choice, let me know. I'll file it away for future knowledge so that the next time we have this showdown my couches won't look like overstuffed brown turds.)