I used to think giving birth was the ultimate labor of love, seconded only by giving up caffeine and cocktails. I can still remember that terrifying birthing moment when I thought the worst of the pain was over and the nurse told me to PUSH. “You want me to WHAT???!!!” That’s when I learned the meaning of the medical term, “Ring of Fire.”  (It is a wonder anyone ever has more than one child.)  As a mother of five children, four of whom are teenagers, I now know that the contractions were only the opening act leading up to a life long drama of inciting incidents, enduring conflicts, and show stopping moments.

Ahhh, remember those first few baby steps? Now think about having three kids who DRIVE! The ultimate labor of love is not giving birth. No. It is taking your kids to the DMV to get their driver’s permits. I don’t know about you, but for me (and I am sure there are plenty of upstanding drivers out there, present company included) whenever I go to the DMV it’s LOSERVILLE. Whether it be the humorless clerks sitting behind their Beanie Baby decorated computers in a windowless, airless room listening to the automated drone of the canned announcer calling out Bingo numbers “G108, window 7. B101, window 10.” the whole experience  always just plain sucks.

Sophia was the first to get her permit a few months ago. Since I was going to the DMV with her anyway I thought I would take the opportunity to finally get around to updating my driver’s license with my new married last name. I filled out the form, (the walls are filled with so many f#*kin’ forms) and I wrote down my height as 5′ 9 1/2″. (I used to be 5′ 10″, but I shrunk.) The clerk tells me: “We don’t do haves. I have to put 5′ 9″ or 5′ 10″. Which is it?” I decided to lighten the mood with a joke so I said, “Why don’t you make me 5′ 10″? What the hell. I’m lying about my weight too.” Smirk. That was all I got. Just a grunt and a smirk. I thought that was funny. “Sophia, didn’t you think that was funny?” I asked my mortified daughter who was standing next to me ready to crawl into a hole. She didn’t think it was funny either. She was too nervous about taking her test which, happily, she passed. Yeah! It was white knuckles for me the whole time while I waited for her sitting in one of those uncomfortable orange plastic chairs (the same color as the vests the highway construction crews wear at night) skimming through a discarded Lillian Vernon catalog. Whew! Glad that’s over.

Yesterday, I had to do it again. This time I multi-tasked and took both boys, Sam and Mark at the same time and I was better prepared. I brought my copy of La Cucina Italiana, a fabulous travel/cooking magazine to read while I waited. But first we had to wait in line to get an application. Then we had to fill out the application and get in line again to give them the application. And once again, it was crackpot city. We stood at the counter next to a guy who was there to get a release of liability for his ’84 Cadillac Eldorado that had just been torched by his ex-wife. He wasn’t sure if the car was still in his name and couldn’t ask his ex-wife “On account that her and I don’t speak ’cause of the restraining order.” GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!

Seriously though, the hard part wasn’t waiting in interminably long lines with the dregs of humanity. It was watching my children take their first major step toward independence and hoping nervously that they would not fail. Mark passed his driver’s permit test the first time. Sam, who often has a case of over confidence, did not study, and he failed. Typically they make you wait a week to take the test again, but somehow Sam charmed them into letting him take it right away and on the second attempt he passed. Woo Hoo!!! We celebrated with Jamba Juices and sent text messages to their sisters that simply said: “Watch out. We’re on the road.” God help us.

One final note: I called my insurance company to have the three kids added to our policy and the agent I talked to audibly choked on the price he had to quote me. I asked him if his reaction was out of sympathy for me. “No.” he responded, “I’m worried about myself. I have a 14 and a 15 year old and this is what I am going to have to face in the next few years.”  I know exactly how he feels.