Driving test a rite of passage

With a winter of erratic weather safely behind us, the time has come for Christopher, 17, to finally take his G2 driving test.

His instructor called to book a brush-up lesson and the test itself; he has scored very well on the in-class and road test provided by the driving school. Like many new to a calling, he is constantly pointing out faults of others. Meaning mine.

We've become a little lazy over the last few months. He's had fewer shifts at work, so even though I let him drive whenever we head out, we haven't really driven as much as I would have liked. Last weekend, he decided to show off his highway skills. A Saturday at noon to a huge shopping complex. And me without my valium.

"See? I merged really well, and I'm only going to drive in the right-hand lane, no matter what, for like, two months. How does that sound?" he asked.

"You did well. Watch that idiot. Let that guy merge. You got up to speed perfectly. Oh, crap, that moron isn't even looking. Well, it's not like you're going to need to do a lot of highway driving right away ..." I glanced at him.

"Well, the thing is, there's this girl I like, and she lives towards St. Catharines ... Why are you all white?"

We concluded our trip without further incident. Or discussion of girls.

I offered to take Christopher out to practise parallel parking. He said he is great at it and declined.

"But you'll need to practise," I told him.

"Nah, it's okay. My teacher and I will do some beforehand. I'll be fine."

"But I haven't seen you do one," I said with a frown.

"Mom, I do them perfectly well. In my teacher's Yaris. And that's what I'm taking my test in, so I'll worry about parking this monster another time."

I looked into the back of our Montana; it was true. A Yaris would probably fit neatly inside it.

A dentist appointment meant we were all heading out together a few days ago. Ari, 14, took off for the garage. Christopher and I got in the van, waiting for him. He finally hopped in the back strapping on a full-faced motorcycle helmet.

"Mom, make him take it off," said Christopher through gritted teeth.

"Ignore him," I replied.

"Muffle, muffle, muffle," said the back seat.

"You might as well learn to drive with distractions, which means ignoring him," I said. We arrived at the dentist without further incident. When Christopher is driving, I've noted that he prefers to carry the keys. He also prefers to walk some distance away from me, and pretend he doesn't know me if I speak to him. He has already asked if he will be getting his own set of car keys. To drive on the highway. To visit a girl. I said no.

"You think I'll try and take the car all the time, don't you?"

"No, I think I don't want to pay the dealer for another set of keys," I lied.

Two days ago, I was racing Porsches around Mosport. My phone rang during a break.

"I passed!" Christopher said.

"Excellent!"

"When are you coming home?"

I'll never see my car again.

Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Thursdays on Wheels.ca.

www.lorraineonline.ca