Making a connection with another mom’s son

Lorraine Sommerfeld

WHEELS COLUMNIST

I had Ari, 15, and three of his friends at the cottage for a few days. I was pretty much only needed for driving and food prep, but at this age, even being wanted for things so pedestrian is a tiny light in the tunnel of adolescent myopia.

I arose each morning a few hours after they’d gone to bed. This rhythm works; I get back the quiet I have forfeited the night before. As I drank my tea one morning, I planned a trip to town. Ari’s friend Kevin, 16, stumbled out of his bedroom, blinking in the morning sun.

“Wow. I can’t believe I’m up already,” he said. I laughed.

“Well, I’m just heading to town and you’re welcome to come, if you like,” I said. I was being polite. The only thing worse than being stuck with your own mother is being stuck with someone else’s.

“Sure. Can I wear these?” he asked, indicating his pajama bottoms. I shrugged.

“Sure. You want to drive the first part?” I asked him. He’d recently gotten his G1.

“Uhm, maybe not. But I’ll watch you. Maybe on the way back,” he said as we headed out to the van.

Our rutted driveway is a cave of extended branches in the forest; the road becomes a wider dirt one, and continues for a couple of kilometers before reaching pavement. Like most northern roads, it dips and turns, circumventing landscape anchored by the Canadian Shield.

As we drove, Kevin started talking. How did I know there wasn’t something coming over the next crest? How soft was that shoulder? Is the middle the safest part to drive on? What was the speed limit?

I wasn’t used to this. He asked great questions and listened to my answers. We talked about driving school, practicing and experience. We talked about rpms and standard versus automatic transmissions. In town, we discussed the finer points of parking – how to gauge your distance from other cars, remembering to straighten your wheels.

A car ahead of us on the highway had its four ways flashing at odd moments, brake lights signaling erratically. After dropping back to assess this carnival of chaos, I decided the car had electrical problems. I showed Kevin that the car was maintaining the same speed and direction, oblivious to the light show playing out on its rear end. We talked about the danger of poorly maintained vehicles.

As we returned to the final road in, I asked if he wanted to take the wheel. He declined, saying he’d actually never been out of a parking lot and was still apprehensive about it. I explained that we’d all practiced driving at the cottage for that very reason; the roads were far quieter, especially early in the morning. I told him that when we came back another weekend, if he wanted to give it a go, he was welcome to.

I spent an unexpected hour with a 16-year-old boy who wanted to hear what I thought, and considered my opinion valid. This was a lovely gift to me, though he’d never know it. I love my boys, but they’re going to have to get older before they think I’m any smarter.

As we slammed the doors and headed in with our purchases, I told him how refreshing it was to have this conversation with a teenage boy who didn’t try to tune me out.

“Oh, don’t feel bad,” he told me earnestly. “We never listen to our own parents.”

Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Mondays in Living and Saturdays in Wheels. Reach her via www.lorraineonline.ca.

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