Kurt is driving. *makes sign of the cross even though atheist*
I said… another mad, irresponsible teenager has been let loose on the road. So if you are unfortunate enough to find yourself on the same piece of road as a young man in a silver Golf anywhere in the Lower North Shore, who is sat next to some crazy middle-aged female hyperventilating and dry-wretching out of the passenger window, I recommend you get out of the way.
Kurt driving is a huge deal for this over-anxious mother who is a direct descendant of the original Helicopter Parenting species. Several wiry grey hairs have already sprouted through my highlights, seemingly overnight.
I promise you, I tried everything to avoid this debacle of putting my son behind the wheel. I tried to control this event in much the same way I’ve tried to helicopter everything my children want to do that may put them in harm’s way.
(What parent doesn’t? It is becoming glaringly obvious to me now that ‘the fear’ never goes away because you have to let them spread their wings).
And then fate stepped in.
Having told Kurt emphatically that I would not pay for his driving lessons until he reached the age of (at least) 45, (due to the higher risk of accidents kids linked between ADHD and driving, as well as the fact that he still can’t be trusted to take his medication and the worrying long-lasting effects of any self-medication that may or may not still be in his system), I have now been forced to capitulate.
In my opinion, no seventeen-year old boy should be allowed on the road. Maturity in a seventeen-year old boy is about as uncommon as energy in front of the sport on television in the middle-aged man, and furthermore, there is a suspicious relationship between the male and cars that is unhealthy. If only boys showed as much enthusiasm for learning other life skills, such as ironing and cooking, we would all be a lot happier.
And the thought of seventeen-year old boys WITH ADHD behind the wheel is frankly the stuff of nightmares.
But then I was faced with a conundrum – when Kurt’s equally juvenile seventeen-year old male friends began to pass their tests and drive my son around. MY SON! So I was cornered. Was it wiser to trust my son’s life to his silly friends or in his own hands?
Not much of a choice, is it? It’s so bloody frustrating when your teenagers refuse to let you control them.
So I had to back down. I decided that it was easier to blackmail my son into demonstrating some responsibility on the roads than to control his friends behaviour that is fuelled by the most dangerous drug of all, ‘peer pressure’.
At least, I thought, I would have time to get used to the idea. But no, because that disorganised son of mine with little or no focus, only fucking passed his Ls the same week he decided to drive, with no revision – in fact, he organized the whole fucking shebang – something kids with ADHD CAN do when they see a massive Dopamine hit as the end result.
Childishly and on principle, I obviously refused to get into the car with him until he’d survived a ridiculous number of very expensive lessons and his wonderful instructor, Jack, (who is obviously a saint), gave me the all-clear. And our first outing together will not go down as one of those special bonding moments. No, it wasn’t a pretty sight at all – psychotically anxious mother holding frantically to the safety handle of the car door with one hand and brown paper bag in the other, next to a teenager who thinks they are already an experienced Formula 1 driver.
‘Chill, mum,’ doesn’t pacify me, oddly, when my son consistently takes corners like he’s in a dodgem at the fairground and behaves as though he owns the road.
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