Late Braker and Tire Squealer

It's been another fun filled weekend of teen driving in our house.  I'm envisioning my own MTV reality show kind of like "16 and Pregnant" but instead called "15 with Temps." The show would be essentially the same- lots of crying and gnashing of teeth- some yelling- some swearing- some drinking- some hurling. This is all within 5 miles of the house.  I wonder if Adele would sing one of her sad songs for the opening credits.

To protect the innocent, I won't use names. Twin A is Late Braker (LB). Twin B is Tire Squealer (TS).  

LB is a pain in the ass. Try driving along and thinking about how long you could possibly go without braking for the dead stopped traffic in front of you.  Now count to 4. Now brake.  That's a dang Late braker.  To prevent what seems like the inevitable collision, his howling Mom's instructions require him to leave a football field between him and the cars in front of him so we may look strange driving around and stopping at stop lights a 1/4 mile away.  It's self preservation.

Did you know that if you pull really hard on the passenger door and lean to the left, it is still impossible to will a vehicle that you are not in control of back onto the roadway?  Just checking.

I had no idea that the tires could squeal on our boring old family minivan.  That was until TS hopped in the drivers seat and drove us home from Mexican dinner when I was too lazy (read: bone dead tired) to cook dinner.  TS settled himself in and declared that the boat of a minivan was the coolest thing he's ever driven. Interesting for his 2nd vehicle, but I'm not counting.  Then, he floored it and we all hit the back of our seats with tires squealing. There must have  been smoke.  This was pulling out of the parking space.  I've never heard the car make that noise.  TS was thrilled.  TS's father had by this time assumed a crash position in the back seat and was reciting traffic violations from memory from the Ohio Revised Code along with the punishments sure to be dealt out by an unsympathetic magistrate.  TS could have cared less.  

We had the misfortune of allowing TS to drive the minivan again only to have him squeal the tires at a very busy intersection in the middle of town. People were staring at us.  Isn't it supposed to be the kids who don't want to be seen with the parents? I wanted to slap on a wig and change clothes so as to avoid being recognized with this child turned maniacal minivan racer. I'm waiting for him to give up on using the doors and start hopping through the window like it's the General Lee.

A friend of mine told me that she only ever let her kid drive in the cemetery. If only I had been that smart.