Teaching Your Teens to Drive: A Midlife Fever Dream

Once upon a time, I thought raising twins was the ultimate test of patience. Then I decided to teach them how to drive.

Why me? Well, my ex-husband, who shamelessly derides that he can’t handle “the stress of a woman behind the wheel,” and conveniently decides he’d be more useful buying the car than teaching them to drive it.

So there I am: a perimenopausal woman, with a brain that can’t remember what day it is, trying to teach two hormonal teenagers the difference between the gas and brake pedals, while also trying to remember which twin I’m talking to.

We start with the basics.

"Okay, turn right here."

Blank stare.

"RIGHT. No, the other right! Stop! I mean - okay, brake! BRAKE!"

I sound like a malfunctioning Siri having a nervous breakdown.

By some miracle, we merge onto a main road. I clutch the door handle while my teen makes wild lane changes and narrates the whole thing like a YouTube vlogger:

"Omg, Mom, that car was, like, totally in my way. Did you see that?!"

Yes. Yes, I did. I also saw my entire life flash before my eyes, including all the times I swore I’d “never be like my mother” grasping at the roof and dashboard with every lane change, yet here we are.

What’s worse, my left-right sense has abandoned me completely. I’m yelling "LEFT!" while gesturing right, pointing at street signs like a drunk air traffic controller.

We finally make it back to the parking lot, my entire body tense enough to crack walnuts. She hops out, unfazed, grabs her water bottle and high fives her sister, and pretends she didn’t just witness me age by 30 years in 30 minutes.

Then comes round two. The other twin strolls up, iced coffee in hand, all attitude. I’m still recovering from the first near-death experience, but apparently, it’s my job to be the unpaid Driver’s Ed instructor for the day.

I brace myself and say a prayer to whoever protects hormonal mothers everywhere.

Because teaching teenagers to drive when you can’t remember which pedal does what, which twin is which, or whether your bladder will survive a sudden stop? That’s a new level of midlife chaos they don’t cover in therapy.

But hey, at least I can rest easy knowing my ex-husband is blissfully unbothered by the entire experience. A$$hole.