Updated: Dec. 18, 2015
Originally Published: May 25, 2015
The car was generously lent to us by my Granny, my mom’s mother-in-law. This vehicle was an enormous beast—about 900 feet long—without a hint of air conditioning. As we cruised down the highway with the windows rolled down, hurricane-force winds whipped through the cabin, turning our hair into a wild mess.
In the back, there was a rear-facing seat that my cousins adored, but I absolutely loathed. I wanted to see our destination, not reminisce about where we had been. We affectionately named the car “La Bamba,” but not for any hot Latin dance—more for its clunky, outdated nature.
When it came time for me to learn to drive, my mom would drop me off at the long, circular driveway of my school in that very car. She knew, without me saying a word, how much I despised it and the changes it represented for our family. The first car she purchased after her divorce was a used 1979 Mercury Cougar, white with maroon pleather seats and an alternator that often left us stranded. It was in this car that my driving lessons began.
On my very first attempt to back down the driveway at my grandparents’ home, the rear wheels plummeted into the shallow drainage ditch across the street. “Mom, this is pointless. I’ll never learn to drive,” I groaned. “Yes, you will. Pull forward and try again,” my mom insisted, determined to make me persevere. She made me practice until I could expertly turn the steering wheel at the right angle and time to align with the road.
During my sophomore year, my mom made an exciting purchase: a bright blue Toyota Corolla. This was her first brand new car bought entirely on her own, and her joy was palpable as she hopped out of the car in front of our small apartment. “Come on! Let’s go for a ride!” she exclaimed, practically dancing around the car. The energy was electric, and as I slid into the front seat, I couldn’t help but feel the buzz.
However, my excitement quickly turned to dread when I realized she had bought a stick shift. “Uh, Mom, this car is a manual,” I said, panic creeping into my voice. “I know!” she chirped enthusiastically. “Isn’t it awesome?” The Cougar was automatic, and I knew as much about driving a stick as I did about brain surgery. “But I don’t know how to drive a stick.”
“I know,” she replied, shifting into gear and pulling out of the driveway. “I’m going to teach you. Every girl should know how to drive a standard.” She then recounted a news story about two girls who were abducted, one of whom couldn’t drive a stick and ended up in the trunk. “I never want you to be the girl in the trunk,” she said, and my lessons began.
While my time with the speedy little blue Corolla was fraught with mishaps—I scraped the side against a guardrail, knocked off part of the bumper after colliding with a fence, and ran into a car full of guys uninterested in my report of the accident—I learned a lot. My final major mishap involved running a stop sign, hidden behind a tree, which resulted in enough damage that a tow truck was necessary.
When my mom arrived to assess the situation, I handed her my driver’s license, tears streaming down my face. “What’s this?” she asked, her tone sharp. “My license. It’s clear I shouldn’t be driving,” I lamented. She pointed the card at me. “You put this back in your wallet and don’t you ever say that again.” Her voice softened. “Now, let’s take care of the car.”
Family stories about my mother often recount the time my dad purchased a brand new pickup truck with a manual shift, knowing she couldn’t drive it. But my mom, never one to back down, taught herself to drive that truck with sheer determination and an “I’ll show you” attitude. For her, driving was synonymous with control over one’s life, safety, and freedom.
Although my mom may not have transformed me into the best driver, she instilled in me the values of persistence, independence, and the importance of fighting for what I desire. By my senior year, she gifted me a 1979 Monte Carlo, which I took with me when I left home that summer. For the next five years, I drove it back and forth on Interstate 10, with the windows down, hair dancing in the wind, always focused on the road ahead.
If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, check out our other blog post here. One of the best resources for understanding donor insemination is American Pregnancy. And for those looking into artificial insemination products, Cryobaby offers great options.
In summary, my driving lessons with my mother were about so much more than just learning how to operate a vehicle; they were lessons in resilience, independence, and the importance of never giving up, no matter the challenges ahead.