My driver’s license is a laminated bundle of lies.
That number claiming to be my weight is actually from 1987, although I suppose I should be grateful that the true number is less than ten percent higher after thirty years and two babies.
The photo is circa 2006, because my state allows one online renewal without a new photograph. By the time I head back to the MVA in 2022, that picture will be as old as I was when I barely passed my driver’s test.
I think I passed the first time, although I wouldn’t put money on it. Isn’t it funny how something that was of such importance to me then is now a memory that I can barely grasp? I do remember that when I passed, I did it by the skin of my teeth.
A driver is allowed a maximum number of points off; let’s say it is twenty. I ace the whole test until it is time to parallel park, and I can’t do it. Instead of parking in one fluid motion, I wiggle my way in. After a certain amount of time elapses, I lose points. Then I lose more. I finally wedge the car in the spot, then complete the test with no more issues. Mr. Evaluator congratulates me, but also informs me a bit too smugly that I lost the maximum twenty points for taking so long to parallel park.
I can count on one hand the number of times I have successfully parallel parked since 1987.
In 2015, Matt takes our oldest child to the MVA to take her skills test. I wait at home, feeling like I want to throw up. Forty-five minutes after her appointment, Matt calls me, ready to explode. My daughter kills it on the parallel parking portion, but the MVA guy says the inside of the windshield is streaky and must be cleaned.
Matt spits on a handful of Chick Fil-A napkins to clean the glass, but that’s not good enough for Tester guy. If you don’t have something in the car to clean the windshield with, he says, I’ll have to disqualify the car.
By the grace of God, Matt finds some wipes in a first-aid kit in the trunk. He scrubs the window again, muttering a few choice words not quite under his breath. Jerk Man deems the glass clean enough, and off they go. She passes.
This week, it was my son’s turn. Parallel parking is no longer required, but I still don’t have the stomach to accompany him to the test. Matt takes him, making sure he has a container of glass cleaner in his trunk. But Jerk Man must have taken early retirement, because the evaluator is a nice woman who deems the car clean enough.
He passes. And won’t let me show his face here.
After nineteen years of chauffeuring my children, I can hang up my hat. It’s bittersweet, and I wonder where the toddlers who kicked my seat and threw Cheerios at me went. How did they grow up when I am still 1** pounds, according to my driver’s license?
It’s also liberating and scary to have two children who don’t need me to take them everywhere they want and need to go. They can make their own way, as grown-ups do, but with Mom anxiously awaiting their safe return home.
Joining Finish the Sentence Friday with Kristi and Kenya.
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