Mario and Marco

"Mommy, what's that noyse?" Ethan asked.

"Well, son, that's the sound of Mommy learning to drive this car."

"Mommy, wha happend?"

"Mommy squealed the tires so we wouldn't roll backward down this hill."

*     *     *

The past week has been an emotional one, not in the life-changing or obvious sense, but in the way that sudden changes you weren't expecting can throw you off for a few days.

We had talked about selling the truck and downsizing to a more economical car (believe it or not, Dodge Rams aren't known for fuel efficiency), but the thought of selling it was exhausting. Besides, we loved the truck. Even if we didn't know how much it would cost to fill the tank, since our gas budget never went that high. Then my parents' neighbor, a landscaper, was telling us how his old Jeep died, and his business was on hold in one of the busiest times of year until he could get a new vehicle. So we sold him ours.

I offered my parents $4,000 cash for their Ford Edge, but strangely they didn't accept. They just let us borrow it for a while instead. And so the hunt for a new-to-us, economical but dependable car began. Yesterday we bought a silver 2007 Ford Focus from a delightful gentleman who will from this day forward be our mechanic. The car has no bells and whistles, but we like it that way (and we couldn't have afforded it otherwise). What it does have is a manual transmission.

My friend Brett drove an old stick Saab back in high school—in flip-flops, at times!—but he's a genius and an athlete. When we bought our first car together, I test-drove a stick in a parking lot. Much to my coach/father-in-law's chagrin, the only way I could keep the car going was to whiz around the lot at 35 in third. A few years ago, my friend Jon generously offered to teach me and, I quote, his "clutch has never quite been the same since." Still, I had some prior experience. Noah did not.

*     *     *

My main objection to the Sink or Swim learning method is that sinking is a very real possibility. Likely, even. And it's not the best strategy to employ at, say, the Chick-fil-A drive through during rush hour.

Noah was driving. Or, more accurately, kangaroo hopping and stalling. I won't tell you the details of what happened (because marriage has its uses, and I'd like to stay in mine), but I will say we were halfway to a divorce agreement by the time we pulled back out of the drive through, soaked in Coke Zero.

The experimental driving got me to school a few minutes late, and I promised Noah that I'd do the driving on the way home.

*     *     *

Leaving the parking deck would have been easy if it weren't for the automated bar that will only go up once you've inserted your paid ticket into the machine. I contemplated having Noah get out and do it so I could slow roll through the exit and not have to worry that the bar might come down on the stalled car. But I persevered. And there were only about five witnesses, so that was one good thing.

One of my most marked qualities driving standard is my inability refusal to stall out. I muscle through the shift from neutral to first, even if that means squealing the tires and incurring whiplash. Because the shame of a bad start pales in comparison to the shame of stalling through two green lights. But I'm not naming names.