We were getting ready for my 10-year-old’s basketball game. She could not find her jersey or her right shoe. I’ll never understand how my children lose just one shoe, but it happens all the time. Do they come home, take one shoe off, and then hobble around for an hour or two thinking the floor is oddly uneven?
We settled on wearing a yellow shirt that sort of resembled the same color that all the girls with responsible parents were wearing and her old sneakers that were too tight.
So we were already late when my 16-year-old ran up and asked if she could come.
Um, sure.
I wondered to myself why anyone would want to submit themselves to basketball played by 10-year-olds, but I didn’t question it. I had to be there (I was the coach), but she had a choice. I received my answer as soon as we stepped onto the driveway.
“Hey Dad, can I … um … drive?”
Oh.
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