Post Traumatic Permit Disorder. When I see a Student Driver sign on a sedan, I PTPD strikes! The older I get, the more nervous I get as a passenger in a car.  Poor Tim. My incessant flinching drives him crazy.

When Katie learned to drive, we laughed until we cried when she almost sent the van over the curb toward the Chandana neighborhood pond. When Bethy learned to drive, the stop light at Bullseye Lake Road and Calumet Avenue did permanent damage to our vocal chords. When Brendan got behind the wheel, it was smooth sailing because of his middle school golf cart expertise.  Brigid is just calm. Period. No shouting matches, no tension. Instead, she was purely focused, purely present, and purely open to all suggestions. Everyone needs a Brigid.

Then the motherload of permit drivers turned fifteen – Kevin. Our youngest suffered from retinoblastoma – cancer of the eye – at age two. The doctors enucleated (a euphemism for yanked out) his left eye within days of spotting the blobby tumor on his retina. He has had a number of beautiful prosthetic eyes, and he’s made quite a bit of cash by taking them out for curious folks who like to see the bloody back of his eye socket. When he was ten, he wanted to trick or treat as a one-eyed pirate on Halloween – without an eye patch. (Note: I need to add another chapter to this book of parenting tips – Diplomatic Rejection of Halloween Costumes.)

We were told that Kevin would learn to turn his head to compensate for his loss of vision on his left side. Not our Kevin. Heck no. When he crossed the street in front of our quiet neighborhood home, Tim and I would shout, “Turn your head, Kevin!” Instead, he would bolt across the barren street. Need I say more about his driving?

When Kevin selected DePaul University in Chicago as his college of choice, we thought of the benefits of the excellent public transportation. We complained about the CTA as kids, but suddenly the EL and buses were the best. After he moved into his dorm, I drove his royal blue Honda Civic straight to Carmax. When I got out of the car to shut the door, the left side resembled the blue waves of the ocean, and the Blue Book value vanished upon inspection. We survived Kevin’s 50+ driving hours, and now he doesn’t care if he ever drives again. 

Recently Kevin told us he was thinking about joining Chicago’s hundreds of delivery personnel on bicycles. Thank goodness a restaurant job turned up.