Politeness

     Four hours of driving experience is not sufficient for Kansas City. 

My friend Joyce completed my driving school, placing me behind the wheel of her beaten car during the worst traffic jams. 

     “Go girl, go! Didn’t you see that green truck? Ah! Maybe it was in your blind spot…” 

     Instead of looking forward I drove trying to keep an eye contact with my friend. I felt like I needed to support the conversation and hardly paid attention to the road. I am polite...      

     My son, Paul, noticed a year later, sitting next to me in the car: “Mom! Did you hear about road rage?!” I never heard of a thing like that before. The drive was going to be long; we were going back home from my work and had plenty of time to discuss just about anything.

     “Nah! I haven’t,” I prepared myself for a cultural lesson; 

     “Did you see that guy, pointing a middle finger at you?”

     My idea of what was crass was very limited, so it took me awhile to grasp

a "middle finger"concept of what my ten-year-old son tried to tell me. 

     “Where did you learn this?” I was totally amused by what I heard.

     “Oh mom, on TV, where else? And at school! You can learn all kinds of

stuff there.” 

     "Why didn't you tell me?!" That was obvious. My son was too polite.

     Little Paul began teaching me with adult patience, “You don’t

change lanes right.” Here I could argue; I knew how to change lanes.

     “First, you show the signal, you turn your head to check the lane, and

you turn the wheel!”

     Paul calmly commented, “Yes, exactly! But not all three at once! You

should turn the head to the right to check the blind spot, then show the

signal, and only then you turn the wheel to the right.”

     “Really?!!! Is it not what I am doing?!!!”

My ten-year-old son patiently instructed, “Mom! You do all three at once!” 

     "Of course, how else do you do it?"

     “Mom!” Paul started it all over. “First, you show the signal, then you turn your head to check the lane, and then, only then (!!!), you turn the wheel!”

     This time, I almost cried; I did exactly what my son was telling me. But then, I started mentally rewinding my way of doing it and I got dismayed.

     I was horrified; I had done it all wrong for a year and was not killed.

That really frustrated me: I didn’t realize that every time I changed lanes I put my son and myself at risk!

     “Why didn’t you tell me this before? We could be both dead by now!”

     “Mama, I am not a backseat driver! Nothing could be worse than to have

a person in your car who tells you how to drive!”

     Ahhhhh, like mother like son...