BUCKLE-UP

My daughter (age 15 years and 11 months) got her driver's permit last week. She could have gotten it five months ago when she turned fifteen and a half, but she put it off. Putting off getting her permit means she puts off getting her driver's license for five months. If she puts off getting her driver's license can you imagine what it's like getting her to do her homework or clean her room?

I drove when I was 12. I grew up in a rural town in Arkansas: population under 2000, no stop lights and only one four-way stop sign. Much to my mother's dismay, I used to skip kindergarten to go with my dad because he would let me sit in his lap and drive around the farms as he checked the fields. By the time I was 12 I was an old pro and no one even blinked when I would grab the keys and drive myself to basketball practice--all three blocks. Nevertheless, the day I turned 14 and could get my permit, I drove myself to the police station, parked a block away, and strode in with my birth certificate in one hand and the driving manual in the other. Luther, one of our two city (I use that word loosely) policemen just smiled as he handed back my perfectly scored test. Luther was as ready as I was to get me on the road to official, I'm sure he was exhausted from pretending that he didn't see me speeding by.

Of course, I did not expect my lovely daughter to pass her driver's test. As we drove to the D.M.V. I admonished her for not studying and warned her that if she didn't pass, she was paying the twenty-eight dollars to take the test over. She assured me that she had studied. Her friend had taken the test last week and he asked her "a bunch of the questions on the phone last night" so of course she would pass the test. I reluctantly continued driving as I beat myself up for letting her miss first period and for wasting my time.

About halfway through the Chronicle my daughter walks over holding an official looking paper. She passed! Barely, but she passed. I have a sudden surge of regret! In a short six months she will be getting in the car, without me, and driving off to heaven knows where. Walking out of the D.M.V. my daughter grabbed the keys and jumped into the driver's seat as I tried desperately to come up with an excuse to keep her from driving: It was wet out and the morning commute was not quite over and, she's my baby!

My baby got behind the wheel, and grabbed the mirror. Good I thought, adjust the mirror before you start. Wrong! It was a make-up check. She puts her phone in her lap, moves the seat forward (I'm 5'8, she's 5'3) starts the car, finds a radio station playing a song about "making love in a club" and pulls out without looking in either direction. I want to say something but I don't really know where to start. She flies over a speed bump and explains to me that it's really better to go over them fast. I tell her that the people who put them in disagree. We stop at a Starbucks for a celebratory latte--she's celebrating passing and I just really need a coffee. We leave Starbucks and I settled in and pick up my latte. The aroma is already soothing my rattled nerves and raw emotions--I close my eyes and lift the cup to my lips. She slams on the brakes! "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn't see that stop light." "The one right in front of you," I ask? We continue on, almost there and no one has died. As we approach a flashing red light I ask her if she knows what a flashing red light means. "Of course" she replies as she runs right through it, "I had that question on my test." "Well you missed that one," I say as I look around for a police car.

We are almost at her school. I have cleaned the coffee off of the dashboard and my heart rate is approaching normal. She ask me when she's getting her own car because she has to have one registered to her before she can take her final driving test in six months. "What!" I say too loudly.

"Yeah, that's what the lady said. I have to have proof of insurance and a car registered to me."

She parks in front of her school and jumps out. I get in the driver's seat, banging my still-shaking knees on the steering wheel. I make a mental note to explain "car registration" to my daughter when she gets home. I change the radio station, move my seat back, check the rear-view mirror--wipe the coffee off my face-- and think about Luther back in my little hometown.