My newly turned 15-year-old daughter Scarlett and I pulled into the DMV parking lot. It’s early for her, but the bright-and-early wake-up time didn’t bother her this morning. She’s been waiting for this day for quite some time.
Looking cute, she pulls down the visor mirror one more time to make sure her first photo ID won’t be horrendous. I rush her to get out. We just drove over 20 minutes to get here, after all, and I wanted to get inside to see what kind of DMV line we were working with.
I grab my water, phone, and keys. Oh, and don’t forget my sweatshirt, I thought. I brought that too because I know the DMV is always cold. This wasn’t my first time here, of course. I had taken her older sister to her permit and license appointments just a few years earlier.
I got out of the car and shut the door.
Maybe the sound of the door woke up some sleeping part of my brain. A part that decided to take a mini vacation for the past week or so because in that instant a thought pops into my head that somehow hadn’t existed until that very moment.
She needs her birth certificate.
As soon as the thought appears there, my heart lowers a centimeter or two in my body. It sinks. I can’t believe that this was the first time I thought this thought.
Scarlett circles around the car, ready to go inside and finally get her learner’s permit. I say the thought out loud. Her eyes go from sparkling with anticipation to shooting red hot daggers.
I pull out my phone and try to see if my thought is wrong. But even while doing this, I know with utmost certainty that we are both going to get back into the car and leave. I quickly voice search “what do you need to bring to a learner’s permit appointment, Pasco County.”
Up on my little screen pop the AI search results confirming EVERYTHING I failed to think of: her birth certificate, Social Security card, and two proofs of address. I have zero. Zero of these things. The only extra thing I remembered was my damn sweatshirt.
I read these four things out loud as Scarlett stands next to me.
“I can’t believe you didn’t think of that,” she says to me. I could feel the irritation in her voice. And I felt the same way. I felt like I was looking at myself from the inside and judging the brainlessness. How did I not think about this? How did the thought not cross my brain until now? I had been here before, after all.
But then, a less mature part of me tried to fight back. I didn’t think of it, true. But neither did she, right?! Yes, that’s right. This is her appointment, not mine. She should have known how to prepare for her permit appointment, not me. What about her, huh?! This isn’t all on me.
So, I say back to her, “I can’t believe you didn’t think of it either.”
Immediately after those words came out of my mouth, I felt the pettiness of them. And, my daughter, ever one to put me in my place, shot back, “Yeah, well, you’re my mom.”
Well, shit.
You’re my mom. Those three words that can mean a lot of things depending on the situation. At that moment, they meant: You aren’t doing your job.
And immediately, I felt guilty.
She was right. I am her mom. This was my responsibility to prepare her for this appointment. Self-sufficiency and responsibility are things I should be teaching her, sure, but providing her birth certificate and proof of address probably shouldn’t be on her teenage to-do list.
If disappointment had a sound, it would be the silence in the car on the way back home to grab the 4 things that I should have brought with us in the first place. Midway through, I looked over at her. I hated the silence. I felt awful inside.
“Are you still mad at me?” I ask. She side-eyes me as only Scarlett can side eye and simply says “why?”
“I don’t know. I’m just asking”, I reply. I just wanted to know what she was feeling. The silence still continues. No answer from her. I didn’t know how to take that, but I felt like after failing her, I could at least give her silence if that’s what she wanted.
After 27 minutes of not speaking, we arrived back home and I ran into the house to print copies of our utility bills and grab her identification.
As we pull out of our community, she finally says to me, “I just can’t believe you didn’t think of this.”
My 15-year-old daughter can believe fake AI videos on TikTok, but she couldn’t believe that her mother failed to think that she might need anything for an appointment at the DMV.
I didn’t really have a good answer for this. I absolutely agree. I don’t know how I didn’t think about it. How do you explain how you didn’t think about something? You just…didn’t.
She listened to me try to explain my thoughtlessness as we travelled back the same way we just came. The sky was lighter now and I think her anger and irritation was as well. The excitement of getting her learner’s permit was returning.
After a few moments, she says “Well, you can make it up to me by buying me Starbucks on the way back.”
I laugh, kind of knowing something like this might be coming. “So, I’m paying for your forgiveness then?”
She side eyes me, as only Scarlett can side eye, and simply says “Yes.”
One learner’s permit, a bacon gouda egg sandwich, and a grande strawberry acai lemonade refresher with no inclusions, peach juice and cold foam later, I had officially purchased my daughter’s forgiveness. We were back on good terms.
The day wasn’t ruined and I’m not a total failure of a mom. I just didn’t think a thought.
Scarlett told me she just hopes I don’t make this mistake again and that I learn from it. That I don’t do the same thing again to her younger sisters when it’s their turn. And, as a mom, hearing her say that – I realize that even though I might be brainless sometimes, I’m doing something right.
Because my 15-year-old recognizes that we all fail. What’s important is that we learn from it.