By Pamela Moeng

Ms Twenty-Something aka My Brown-Eyed Baby Girl is taking driving lessons. I didn't encourage her to be a teen driver, but my maternal fears of highway mayhem and her possible bodily harm can't hold her back any longer. My chicklet wants wings to cruise if not to fly.


For the first time our transport roles have switched. She drove while I did my best to breathe deeply and portray the image of a totally calm passenger. It wasn't that hard actually.

The nameless-faceless young driving instructor has earned every cent of that R180 per hour. Little Ms is practically a pro after six lessons and I'm almost ready to see her drive off into the sunset in my trusty little black Getz. Who'd have thought it'd be so painless?

Of course, Little Mr torments his big sister unmercifully about her driving technique, or lack thereof, as the biggest fan of Top Gear perceives it, but his day is coming sooner than I'd like. Someday soon the last of the lambs will be tooling off into the sunset on four wheels while I do wheelies on a zimmer frame!

For now, I'm glad Little Mr is still shouting "Shotgun!" whenever Mom is chauffeur to some kids-and-mom venue.