As you may know, I am in the process of teaching daughter #1 to drive. This came to a grinding halt (no pun) about a month ago and I’m waiting for my heart rate to return to normal before I ride with her again.
We were cruising along on the Interstate and I was riding shotgun. Daughter #1 was doing an awesome job, relaxed, in control, confident. I was impressed. So much so, I relaxed, too. Daughter #2 was sitting in the back seat and we started to gab about some juicy bit of teen stuff, I can’t recall, but it probably had something to do with cute boys.
Casually, as we all nattered on, I told Daughter #1 to switch to the center lane from the left (or “slow”) lane, as we needed pick up the pace if we were going to get to Portland on time.
I didn’t nag her about looking over her shoulder. Last time I did that, I got the eye-roll and the “Yeah, I KNOW, Mom. It’s not like YOU look every time you change lanes.”
Hunh. I thought I did.
Anyway, we were jabbering about 55 wpm and she executes a lane change with carefree abandon. That’s when the screaming began. #2 and I were shrieking and freaking, throwing ourselves on the floor and begging God to spare us.
“Whut?” Daughter #1 asked, apparently not seeing the GIANT SEMI-TRUCK THAT SEEMED TO HAVE ATTACHED ITSELF TO OUR BUMPER.
“We’re going to DIE!!!” #2 and I screamed and clutched at each other. I was chewing on my heart, trying to get it back down into my chest. I’m too old for this kind of stimulation.
Daughter #2 is now old enough for her permit test. Heaven help me. Today, as I drove #2 to piano, she spotted a Help Wanted sign posted on a School Bus. “Look!” she cried. “Daughter #1 is looking for a job! She should apply!”
As I am now suffering from PTSD, the look on my face must have said it all because she shrugged and said, “Oh. No. Probably not.”