I kept teasing that she should study more for the eye test than for the written test.  

When Ula was six or seven years old, I had a doctor tell me that, owing to her cerebral visual impairment,  she most likely wouldn’t be able to read, ride a bike, or drive a car.

I found a better doctor.

Slowly, she learned to read.  

“But what about driving a car?”  I’d ask the doctor.

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said.  

She learned to ride a bike.  

“But what about driving a car?”  I asked.

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said.

In March, that bridge came.  She turned 16.  We enrolled her in an online drivers’ education class to help her prepare for the written test.  We held our breath when they asked her to read the eye chart.

She passed both.

Now, getting her to safely learn to operate a motor vehicle is our family’s challenge.

The first few times, she was cautious and courteous.  Saoirse stepped up to the plate, and they practiced driving to the farm together to do chores.  Then she became an expert.

Now, as the weeks pass, she gets behind the wheel with Bob and me, and I see she’s developed the same habitual response to her parents that her sister learned at sixteen:

“I know.”

“Ula, you need to be scanning your rear view and side view mirrors,” I mention.

“I know.”

“Ula, you’re straddling the yellow line again.  You gotta move over.”

“I know.”

“Ula, you need to apply pressure to the gas pedal gradually, not all at once,” Bob tells her as she launches us onto the main road and we slam into the passenger side doors. 

“I know.”

“Ula, you need to make your steering wheel corrections gradually, so the car doesn’t swerve.”  We’re both gripping the door handles.

“I know.”

I lose my cool.  “If you know, how come we’re swerving all over the road?”

Finally, her eyes look up to the rearview mirror, where she stares daggers at me — once the trusted mother in full command of her children, now the petulant niggling old hag in her daughter’s backseat.  

But I don’t give up that easily.  I’m the one who taught her how to stare daggers.  She’s confronting the master.  I ratchet up my focus, lock into the gaze and upgrade my visual daggers to lasers.  She flicks her one eyebrow casually and twitches her lip before making a show of directing her attention to the road in front of her.  

I know what that means.  That was her way of rolling her eyes, without getting in trouble for rolling her eyes.  It’s the eye-roll-workaround.

I will not be marginalized like that!  I’m the MOTHER!

“Ula, none of us is legally required to drive with you.  Maybe you could get someone to bring you to Albany where you could pay to hire a private driving instructor,” I hiss as she pulls into the cafe parking lot.  We all get out, slam our doors, and storm inside to start prepping for the weekend.

I don’t go back to the kitchen.  Instead, I stare out the window at the parking lot, my back to my daughter as she stomps around the front of the house wearing tight fitting jeans and a James Dean-style leather jacket that she picked up from a thrift store two weeks ago.  It’s a new look, and it times out with this new aspect of her personality.   She grabs the rolling pin and bench knife, slaps them onto the counter, takes out the butter, cuts off a few blocks and begins pounding it flat for the croissants with a vengeance.  Bang!  Bang! Bang! Echoes throughout the empty cafe. 

This is not how we work together.  

“Ula, come sit down,” I keep my voice soft, but she knows better than to ignore me.  She throws down the butter pounder, stomps across the cafe and slouches down into a chair, staring straight at me, arms crossed.  

How does this happen?  One minute, she wants nothing more than to cuddle beside me in bed, her only comfort in my absence to have an article of my clothing to sniff.  She holds my hand to cross parking lots and traffic.  She trusts me above everyone else in the entire world. 

And the next moment, this. 

I sit down across from her and meet her gaze.  I don’t know what I’m going to say.  

This kid is one of my greatest friends in the entire world.  

This kid is my business partner.

This kid is my sounding board.

This kid is my rock.  

I understand that there is nothing going on here that every parent doesn’t endure with their teenage drivers.  The kid is being a brat, the parent needs to teach them a lesson.

Trouble is, that parent-child relationship is so quickly very very fuzzy with our way of life.  At sixteen, Ula has more hands-on experience working with livestock than I have at 49.  She was eight years old when her Dad and I made the asinine decision to open a cafe, even though I’d never worked in food service a day in my life.  She and her sister had to explain to me that I couldn’t prep food in the kitchen, pull the coffees and wait on customers all by myself (Please, let’s not revisit that trip down stupidity lane.).  They had to get me to understand that I needed their help.   When Bob and I had to relocate to the city for his prostate cancer treatment last November, they took care of the house and the pets and the farm chores.  We encourage our kids to be independent, entrepreneurial, and autonomous.  We’ve even decided peel off the Tentrr enterprise from the farm and put it into their control completely, officially launching their first independently operated business venture.  

Both girls earn their own money.  At sixteen, Ula has already started her retirement account.  This winter she decided to take a vacation and go visit her friend in Aspen before the growing season got underway, and paid her own way there.  

My pulling the alpha-mom card on her is a slap down that insults her dignity and her spirit of independence.  And we already know she has to learn to make visual accommodations.  That means experimenting behind the wheel on these backroads, figuring out how to align her car based on what she sees, and where it actually is on the road.   That’s only going to happen if we can be a team, communicating together.  The conversation needs to be, “This is what I see on road.  How is your brain seeing it?”  

I really really really  want to be a jerk to my kid, because my kid is being a jerk.  

But I stare at those icy daggers, and recognize that they are just young eyes.  She’s a highly competant kid, who doesn’t know what she doesn’t know.  That’s not her fault.

I draw my breath, hold it for a count of three, then let it out.

“The law says that, when you get your learners’ permit, you have to have a licensed driver in the car with you.”

She gives a terse nod.

“And that means that the law requires the licensed driver to instruct you on how to operate the vehicle.”

Her expression doesn’t change.

“So the only way you get your drivers’ license is if we agree to get into the car with you.”  I search more carefully for my next words.  This is the girl who can tube feed newborn lambs, who helps the ferrier take care of the donkey’s hooves, who vaccinates and deworms and performs livestock health checks.  She is a steward of life.  I decide that’s my best angle.  “When you ask us to get into the car with you, you are asking us to trust you with our lives.  And, well, that’s scary as hell.”

I see her eyes open wide.  Finally, she draws a breath.  

“And I think, when we correct you, we might come across as bossy.  Or controlling?”

The daggers in her eyes are replaced by a twinkle of amusement.   She grants me an affirmative nod.

“And I’m sorry about that.  I really am.  But I need you to understand something.”  Finally, I find my way to my truth.  “It’s not coming from a desire to control you.  It’s coming from a place of fear, honey.”  Earnest tears creep into the corners of my eyes.

And with that, her mouth opens wide and she erupts into a full belly laugh.  She can’t stop.  Soon I’m laughing with her, and we laugh so hard, tears run down both our faces. 

And my friend is back.  My business partner is back.  My sounding board is back.  My rock is back.

In fact, she never left.

I just had to figure out how the heck to talk to my kid like the intelligent person she is.  

And now, she gets it.  Until we go out driving again later this afternoon…..

 

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And that’s a really important thing to do, because all of this— the podcast, the blog, the novels and books and the creative recharging that happens over fall and winter—   are a result of the support of my patrons on Patreon.  And this week I’d like to send a shout out to my patrons Landon & KS.  Thank you, folks!  I couldn’t do it without you!