Jessica BarnardI’m in the passenger seat of our Volkswagen, trying not to scream. Not that anyone would hear me in this Waverly Oaks office park, abandoned on a Saturday afternoon. I take a few deep breaths, triple-check my seatbelt, and say in what I hope is a calm, helpful voice, “Could you slow down a little?”
If you haven’t already guessed, I’m teaching a teen to drive. We are doing endless loops in the empty parking lot, somehow always coming too close for comfort (within 20 feet) of the one parked car. I clench my teeth and only squeal a little while my daughter, Sonia, serenely makes a left turn, not forgetting the turn signal. The good folks at Belmont Driving School have prepared her well. So why am I a wreck?
Teaching your kid to drive is a strange connector between generations. Cars haven’t changed much. Sure, now we have backup cameras and Spotify via Bluetooth, but it’s still the same basic principle of starting the ignition, pressing the gas pedal, and turning the steering wheel.
My daughter observed that with driving “you don’t need a lot of instruction, but you need a lot of practice.” Most of becoming a good driver only happens when you are behind the wheel, learning to navigate the Belmont Center underpass, or dodging a flock of turkeys on Common Street. It’s kind of like life: you don’t have any idea what you’re doing, but you have to start out faking it and hope you get the hang of it.
A friend shared her strategy: “I’m striving not to do what my mom did — which in the case of driving was to gasp or scream at the slightest obstacle, such as a stop sign two blocks away.”
We all thought we’d be such cool parents, effortlessly teaching our kids to drive, while blasting music and telling inside jokes. Our parents probably thought the same thing. My own mother remembers “feeling scared in the pit of my stomach, trying not to grab the wheel.” All part of the circle, or in this case, the rotary, of life.
I’m aware of the ending, too. As a member of the sandwich generation, I’m working with my parents to get them off the road as much as possible. If I must be in their passenger’s seat, I squeal and clench my teeth more than with my student driver.
Being middle-aged now means being caught between teenagers, who think you are old and boring and parents, who think you are young and hip. And the thing is, they’re both right. To quote Gen X icon Alannis Morissette, “I’m sane, but I’m overwhelmed, I’m lost, but I’m hopeful, baby.”
I still have no idea what I’m doing, but I’ll get the hang of it soon.
Jessica Barnard writes about Gen X for The Belmont Voice. When she’s not clenching her teeth in the passenger seat, she’s a program manager at Harvard’s Weatherhead Center for International Affairs.
Editor’s Note: The Voice introduces the first of its volunteer columnists. In the coming weeks, there will be contributions about Generation X, Seniors, Gardening, and more. Columnists were chosen through a competitive process. If you have a topic that could be of interest, please email jfloyd@belmontvoice.org .