A boy with a new driver’s license is a wonderful thing.  And it’s also a very annoying thing. 

It’s wonderful for a myriad of reasons. 

First, I don’t have to figure out how he’s getting to and from school anymore, but more importantly, I don’t have to ever wait in another pickup line.

I also don’t have to spend all my spare time delivering him to various sports practices and functions.  Several of these functions required him to be up at school before the dawn broke, and I always looked like something the cat drug in.  Never again.

I don’t have to pick him up from dances at midnight.  It’s not that I’d go to sleep, because I can’t really sleep until all my chicklets are home, but it does mean that I can put on my robe and fuzzy slippers.  

I don’t have to go to Wal Mart.  Kids think Wal Mart is fun; parents don’t.  Wednesday after school he needed something from there, and he got in his truck and went.  Simple as that.  It was euphoric.

He thinks running errands is fun.  You and I know this won’t last, but for the time being it’s pretty great.  I had several piles of miscellaneous stuff that I’ve been needing to deliver or return to various people for a LONG time.  He bounded in after school one day and said, “I wish I had somewhere to drive!”

I embraced this once in a lifetime opportunity and handed him several loads.  He went cheerily out the door, thinking he was getting the better end of the deal.  He-he.

But there are some annoying phobias that go along with a new driver.

He is driving a ten-year-old truck with a standard transmission.  He loves this truck more than he loves his family.  He even loves it more than his X-box or dog.  He spends hours, literally, washing it until it sparkles.

What’s irritating is that he doesn’t think anybody else is worthy or able to drive it.  He starts hyperventilating when we even suggest it.  It’s not like I aspire to drive a big ol’ truck with four on the floor.

But one of our cars was in the shop and I was forced to.  I could barely reach the floor to press in the clutch and stuff, but I managed.  My son, meanwhile, suffered a severe panic attack and was much relieved when I pulled into the driveway with nary a scratch.  “The epitome of role reversal,” I thought to myself.

On one of those days when we were one car short, he drove and I rode.  I ran out to the car with a piece of toast and some coffee and settled in for the ride.

He stared at my food in disbelief.  “Mom, you can’t eat in my truck,” he said matter-of-factly.

“This is a ten-year-old truck,” I replied.  “I think there’s been food in it before.”

“Not since I’ve owned it.”

“You eat in my car all the time,” I came back.  “So, it’s okay to get crumbs in my car, but not in your truck?”

“That is what I’m sayin’,” he said with finality.  Ah, the joys of teenage sons.  But, as with all other things, this too shall pass.

Soon enough, he’ll be begging me not make him run errands as he bolts out the door with a chili dog in his hands.