Some things in life are inevitable. Death, taxes, getting a thermo-nuclear wedgie at least once during junior high and, last but surely not least, having your daughter total your car.
We have just experienced that last one. It's akin to the thrill of a thermo-nuclear wedgie, but with more drama and less underwear involvement.
Allowing your teenage child to take possession of thousands of pounds of machinery that move and is controlled by the uncontrollable was never a good idea. I'm amending my Parental Belief Declaration to include a new section entitled Driver's Licenses Shall Not Be Awarded To Any Person Below The Age Of 35 Under Penalty Of A Thermo-nuclear Wedgie.
This amendment, by the way, comes right after the paragraph on Why Body Piercings Are Evil and Things That Make Your Mother Cry.
If this rule had been in place last week, I would have missed out entirely on the following conversation.
My daughter's friend: "Pam?"
Me: "Yes?"
Daughter's friend: "This is Whitney. I'm calling because Stephanie is really freaked out. She's OK, all right?"
Well, of course she's OK. She was OK when she left here earlier to go to the mall. Nothing better have changed in the OK Department in the past hour.
Me: "What do you mean she's all right? What happened???"
(I add the extra question marks here because I'm certain if you had looked above my head you would have seen them hovering there during this conversation.)
Whitney: "Stephanie had an accident, but she's all right."
Me (clenching teeth): "What happened?"
Whitney: "She, um... well, she kind of hit me, but she's all right! I swear she's all right and I'm all right."
Me (telling myself silently to count to 10 and breathe, just breathe).
Whitney: "There is a kind of hole in the bumper, but that's all. Honest."
I refrained from asking her what a "kind of hole" was exactly, because I was sure I didn't want to know. Instead I asked her if the van was drivable, and she gave me a reassuring response. Apparently it was the kind of hole that still allowed the vehicle to function on a basic level. Everything else was fine. Just fine.
(Note here to parents: When a teenage friend of your teenage child has to call you because your own child is too freaked out to call you, be advised that the "tiny hole in the bumper" story is akin to saying that Scott Peterson had marital issues.)
I finally got my daughter on the phone, ascertained that she was all right (which was good, because as her mother it was my right to hurt her when she got home) and told her to drive home. After all, there was just a small hole in the bumper, right?
Stephanie: "Right."
I probably don't have to tell you here that the entire front of the van was caved in, the hood was buckled and the radiator had been slammed into the shape of a U. I was hyperventilating at this point. What had she hit? A steel-plated Hummer? Mount Rainier?
No, she'd slammed into the hitch of a Suburban and not left a scratch on it - the Suburban, that is.
If the end of the world begins in earnest, I'm going to hop into the nearest Suburban, as I'm quite certain people in Suburbans are the only folks with half a chance of surviving the apocalypse.
After my breathing returned to normal, I hugged my crying daughter and gave her the pat parent speech of "I'm so glad you weren't hurt, it's only a material thing, it's not as important as you are, it can be replaced, you can't, now give me your license because you're not driving again until you're 35 years old."
At this point she, too, began having breathing issues - because I was hugging her so fiercely. Who says love doesn't hurt?
Then I gave her a thermo-nuclear wedgie.
You can write Pamela at doug@kirklandcourier.com.
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