Last week, Buzzard got his permit. Now I’m teaching three teenage boys to drive. I’m very cranky by bed time. Here is how our conversations go:
Bugs
“Slow down, speed limit is 25.” He nods. Ten minutes later, “Speed up, the speed limit is 45.” He nods. “Turn here…”
“Here?”
“Yes, here.”
“Whoa, WHoa WHOA!!! When you see brake lights ahead, stop accelerating!”
Roo
“You really need to come all the way up to the end of the street so you can actually see if there is traffic coming.”
“But the line is back here.”
“Can you see if anyones coming? No. So please stop at the actual end of the street.” (Who painted these lines anyway, a blind man?)
“Um, there are gradual degrees of depressing the accelerator, rather than zero gas and flooring it.”
“Whoa, WHoa WHOA!!! When you see brake lights ahead, stop accelerating!”
Buzzard
I haven’t been in the car with him. DH has had that privilege. Frankly, I think I’m gonna need some wine, or xanax.
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