Driving Me Crazy

I let him hit the curb. Hard. I braced myself for impact and it felt good. I'm not sure I've read 'allow your kid to crash the car' in any parenting books, but I'm here to say I finally got his attention. He was driving me crazy!

If I had a dollar for every time my 15-year-old expert with the driver's permit said, "I know how to drive MOM," I'd be able to pay for a full tank of inflation-priced fuel for my minivan. Regardless of his expertise, I insist on silence in the car so he can focus, and I can breathe. Unfortunately, that night, there was no greater distraction than two brothers in the backseat begging to turn on the rap music.

We had gone out to dinner in a Friday night attempt to steal some family conversation that didn't consist of bathroom banter while my husband was out of town. I was at my wits end from the testosterone overload of parenting three teen boys. Bruh. 

Rap music took center stage after devouring the bread and first round of sodas. Apparently, Kendrick Lamar is cap, and his lyrics are bussin' according to my eldest son, whose smooth-talking credibility ranks high given his musicality on at least six different instruments and almost 85,000 Spotify minutes listened to this year. I'll be the first to admit I know zilch about a genre whose lyrics tend to spike my blood pressure as much as caffeinated teen boys!

One-upmanship is as predictable as potty talk among the homies in our family and sure as s&*%, my middle son piped in claiming Lil Baby be trippin'. "Naw, Lil Baby is wack!" my youngest interjected. What ensued was a love fest of musical artists found nowhere on my #SpotifyWrapped year in review. The bros debate team skills were 'off the charts' promising a throw down of rap music, put to vote on the car ride home. Speechless for once, I couldn't get a word in edgewise, not that I was tweakin' or anything, I simply didn't speak their language and I'll take brotherly banter over their usual male anatomy antics any day! 

I soon came to my senses in the parking lot when my son forgot how to turn on the windshield wipers, quickly realizing my designated driver should not bear distraction greater than the caffeinated clowns in the back seat whilst driving home in the rain. Da boyz didn't agree, and hell hath no fury like teenagers barred from smartphones.

I found myself outnumbered and holding on for dear life, a death grip on the door, as I yelled "Brake!" gasping for air as we came to a dead stop behind a Prius on Macadam. I remember the tension as thick as the setting fog that rainy night full of injustice. I swear there was steam coming out of my 15-year-old's ears behind the wheel. "I know how to drive MOM!" he screamed while swerving over the dotted white line. 

The ten-minute ride home took an eternity, and as we cornered on rails, Mario Andretti assured me there was no chance he'd play his Lil Baby music for me at home. As soon as he cleared the basketball hoop, I knew we were safe for landing. We came in quick like a Southwest Airlines jet promising runway whiplash, and I was grateful my grip and right front tire held tight. Whatever dinner table high we felt came to a crashing low as he rammed right into the curb! 

The look on his face was worth the price of admission for the roller-coaster ride home. The hubcap, a souvenir of poor judgment. "Bummer, that'll cost you," is what I remember saying right as a parent. I probably should've swallowed the "I saw it coming and let you do it yourself" for dessert, instead choosing the "I love you too much to argue," mantra from 'Parenting with Love and Logic'.

Honestly, the hubcap had been battered and bruised by two sibling predecessors, but now it was full-on beat up and bent like my ego, as mom to four teenagers. I estimated the damage at $50 for a new plastic Hyundai Elantra hubcap though I ultimately found a generic version for half the price, recouping some of my cred for saving him after all!

He continues to drive me crazy (they all do), which is the only defense for my actions, but now he knows to pull over to cool down, rather than risk natural consequences. There is not enough oxygen in the car as often as I gasp for breath when each 15-year-old takes the wheel...and I still have another teen to go!