You Backed Into What?

My mother was a very wise woman and she once told me that when you have children that's about all you've got. It took me a while to understand exactly what she meant, but as time has passed and my kids have gone from infancy to adolescence I have come to grasp the true meaning of her words. When your children are born, you lovingly look at them in the hospital and are grateful they have ten fingers, ten toes, and a straight nose. From birth to toddler you are enthralled by their first steps and mesmerized by their first words. From toddler to adolescence you relish every phase and satisfy your offspring with relatively inexpensive toys.

Then one day you wake up and that beautiful curly headed child whose first grade drawings are still hanging on the refrigerator is verging on the age of independence. This doesn't mean they can legally buy beer or tobacco. It just means they are old enough to obtain a driver's license. Ergo, the State of South Carolina will not sell this minor child a lottery ticket, but it will grant them the privilege of operating a two ton, gas powered, metallic object capable of going one hundred and twenty miles per hour down a deserted dirt road.

Peace of mind is important and as responsible parents we try not to give this contradiction of logic too much thought. In addition, completely aware of their total ineptitude, but generally possessing a certain fondness for our own cars, most parents quickly become determined to acquire another vehicle for their young driver. We justify this irrational act by telling ourselves it will ultimately enhance our lives because the child will now be able to drive themself to school or run to the grocery store for that forgotten bag of sugar.

Needless to say, my oldest son, Austin, was the first of our herd to get his driver's license and like a right of passage this also meant he had to have his own car. I envisioned a small, old, safe, foreign model capable of getting at least thirty miles to the gallon while reaching a maximum speed of about sixty. My child immediately informed me that he had something very different in mind. I guess I hadn't been paying attention, but all of his friends drove trucks - really BIG trucks - and nothing else was going to satisfy this tenacious teenager.

Reliving his second childhood, my husband quickly joined forces with our eldest and the two individuals who had rarely shared a compatible thought swiftly merged into a single minded organism whose sole purpose was finding the perfect truck. Once they found it, the relatively harmless looking machine was unceremoniously converted into a lifted, mud-tire equipped, straight piped monster that violated every noise ordinance ever passed by county council. The powder blue product of their efforts was so tall the cab could only be accessed by a step ladder and this probably contributed to the unfortunate incident which our insurance company still uses to justify charging higher premiums for male teenage drivers.

Not long after the acquisition and metamorphosis of "Big Blue" my son was sent on an errand to mail a letter at the local post office. Now, like all good parents who give their boys large trucks to drive, we also made sure the kid had a cell phone so he could call home when he wrecked it. Old enough to pilot this vehicle, but obviously not yet wise enough in the ways of the world to understand the difference between stamped and metered mail, Austin called the house to find out which box he should put the letter in.

I told him to deposit the envelope in the receptacle for stamped mail and above the roar of Big Blue's engine overheard the words "I'm going to have to back up, Oh-!-!-! This was quickly followed by a declaration that Big Blue's bumper had just made contact with something significant. Well, the significant something my son had backed into was a Panoz Esperante and swearing he'd looked, but couldn't see it, Austin had collided with a sports car that cost more than the first home we had ever purchased.

Shortly thereafter, my husband sped to the scene of the not so minor fender bender. The driver of the injured sports car told my spouse that he and his wife had been on a cross country trip visiting their children who lived in New York and California. Safely returning home to our little community from their long journey, the couple had stopped at the post office to retrieve their mail. Tired and slightly irritated, this nice man also informed my husband that he too was the father of sons who had once been teenagers and kindly reassured him that our child had been very apologetic and polite about the regrettable incident.

The extremely valuable automobile damaged that day had to be sent to Atlanta for repairs, but I will always be grateful for the benevolent nature of its owner. It is true that raising teenagers is a lot like being pecked to death by a duck and at times can make you totally sympathetic toward the female guppy who avoids such tribulations by consuming her young.

Then again, when my patience wears thin I remember the gentleman at the post office who was able to afford my son the courtesy of understanding and forgiveness under difficult circumstances. Trying to follow his example, I reassure myself that my kids will eventually grow up and move away to New York or California. I know I'm going to miss them, but when this finally happens I think I'll sell this place and use the proceeds to buy myself a Panoz Esperante.