By Esther C. Baird
First published in the Chronicle Transcript, March 11, 2021
Well Regular Readers, the time has come. Our daughter, whose life has been chronicled in
this column since 2006, when she was 15 months old, now has her driver’s license. You
may recall last summer when I was skeptical about the learning curve as my life hung by a
thread of sanity and the solid manufacturing of Toyota minivans. But we’ve turned the
corner (while also staying on the right side of the yellow line) and she is a competent and
careful driver.
Even better, the state of Massachusetts agrees. I tried to look relaxed as I watched her get
in the test car with her RMV instructor. She had her required mask and surgical gloves in
place, which allowed me to more easily see her demonstration of those all-important hand
signals. Thank goodness they teach that these days. You never know when you may need
to dangle your arm awkwardly out the window looking like a person with a dislocated
shoulder. After the signal success, they drove off. When she returned and hopped out of
the car with a beaming smile that even her mask couldn’t hide, I knew the whole world had
changed.
She was licensed and I suddenly had approximately 1058% more time in my day.
We went home and called and texted the good news around. Then, while I reminisced
about her first plastic scooter that she had balanced on when she was 2, she hopped in our
family Subaru and took off.
“But it’s snowing,” I cried. It was February, what else would it do? Certainly not be pleasant
for our newly minted driver.
I can’t begin to explain the things I felt as the weather turned into icy cow patties plopping
down from the sky while our tiny child (who is 6 feet tall) was zipping across our interstate
highway system that wouldn’t know a pothole from its exit number (not that anyone will
ever understand our exit numbers in mere weeks). February, as an existential concept let
alone a month, fills me with many emotions, none of which belong in this family friendly
column.
But she’s all set. And I do mean, all set. Because the Subaru has a “go bag.”
“It contains items you might need in an emergency,” my husband explained.
“Oooh! Like a back-up Starbucks card?” I asked.
It wasn’t funny. The go bag was a serious matter for serious situations like plunging off of
a cliff into a piranha infested river, or driving, for reasons I can’t fathom, into a pride of
lions such that a hunting knife would be your only reasonable line of defense.
OK fine, the go bag also has Fix-A-Flat, a car battery jumper, a marathon insulation
blanket (for all those times you spontaneously run a marathon in New England and CAN
make it back to your car to grab the blanket but CAN’T turn the car on for heat). Of course,
the bag has a portable shovel (in case the dogs poop?) and I think maybe a cooking stove, a
bottle of mouthwash and, I’m just guessing, but maybe a small bag of gold bars in case the
dollar collapses. Also, fireworks. You never know when you’ll get to a Fourth of July party
and need an extra special display. Or, maybe they are flares.
Either way — party at the Subaru!
“Where’s she going to go with her go bag?” I asked my husband.
“It’s for if things go badly and she just needs help,” he explained.
“But what if she really has to GO? Did you get a go-girl? What if all the potties in America
are closed like last spring and you have to fake being a Starbucks employee just to use the
restroom?”
I was trying to be helpful with my [purely hypothetical, ahem] situation. He didn’t answer.
Nor did he give me my own go bag for the White Whoosh.
It’s fine.
I mean we’ve been married for almost 25 years and to be fair, I do have quite a few pens in
my car along with partially melted and refrozen protein bars, dog bags and gum. (Yes
Regular Reader, my gum addiction has reared its ugly head and I’ve fallen off the wagon.
Just drop it — it’s a pandemic!) I also have not a few empty coffee cups, which I think I
could build an igloo from if I needed to, or at least perform a compelling version of the Cup
Song provided I had a musical back up.
So I’m good — my go situation is a go go. And yet, the irony is that our 15-month-old baby
can drive herself and her sister. The family chauffeur is no longer needed and I’m not
entirely sure where to actually … go.