Son turned seventeen last September and the second the last present was opened he asked the question Rob and I had been dreading… ‘So when do I start driving lessons?’

The main problem is that, in my head, Son isn’t seventeen, he’s nine – and there’s nothing more frightening than being driven round in a car – a dangerous machine over which you have no control – by a small child who had absolutely no experience of traffic and roads.

Not to mention the expense. Blimey! Thirty quid a go and a quick Google advised the average number of lessons needed was FORTY-FIVE HOURS – and that’s just the lessons! The RAC also stated that the average learner needed a further twenty hours of practice. And of course, don’t forget the insurance and cost of petrol.

One of the problems with having teenagers is the realisation they are living their best life and you – the parent – are paying for it. Daughter goes out for lunch with her friends, does a bit of shopping at the weekends and visits the cinema – all paid for by me and Rob. Son is driving, going to parties in London and combing vintage shops for cool designer clothes – again, paid for by us.

Rob and I would love to go to parties in London, go out for lunch and trips to the cinema but we can’t afford it! You know why? Because we’re supporting two teenagers who are having a whale of a time – that’s why!

Ah well. They’ll be leaving home before we know it and I know I will miss them both dreadfully.

Back to the driving. Following his seventeenth birthday, Son spent every week having lessons, and most Sunday afternoons either Rob or I would take him out for a practice. God it was nerve-wracking. I’m not a great driver at the best of times and I would have been much better if I could have had a large gin before we left to help with my nerves – but apparently, that wasn’t allowed.

Son gradually got better and better and Rob and I became more and more happy about taking him out. We practised parallel parking, reversing round a corner, roundabouts, getting on and off dual carriageways – a great blur of traffic lights and yellow lines marked every weekend. I failed first time because I mounted the kerb so I was obsessed with making sure Son didn’t make the same mistake.

After a sleepless night for all of us, Test day arrived. Son disappeared off and we waited, chewing our nails with huge bags under our eyes. After what seemed like hours a text finally arrived on the family chat. He had bad news, he said … Our hearts sank until the next text pinged in.

‘Yay!’ we all replied, absolutely delighted.

But then reality set in. He arrived back, over the moon – hugs all round, all was good but then …

‘Also, Mum, I’m off to the beach with my mates, I won’t be late.’

‘Wait, what?’ I said.

‘I’m insured now, aren’t I? You’ve updated it to say I’ve passed?’

‘Well, yes, but …’

‘And the car has got petrol?’

‘Yes. But…’

‘See ya!’

And he was off. Just like that! An hour after passing! My little lad was out on the roads in a car.

The following day he took an hour and a half trip to Tunbridge Wells taking the A roads as we wouldn’t let him use the motorways until he’d tried them out with one of us by his side. Husband and I followed him the whole way using the family tracking app. Unfortunately, Son decided to save his data and turned it off ten minutes in so his position vanished off the map.

Did he text us to say he’d arrived safely? No, he didn’t. Did he text to say he arrived safely on his first trip on his own to the beach? No.

Husband and I were absolute wrecks until Son finally deigned to reply to our increasingly frantic texts. I was furious.

That was until husband Rob remembered the day he passed his test and he didn’t even go home – he went straight over to his girlfriend’s house. I then remembered the day I passed my test I took my friends Katy and Katie to the Farthing Corner service station for bacon and egg! Straight onto the motorway within 20 minutes of passing.

Ah, the confidence (and thoughtlessness!) of youth. Not once, not once did I think of my mum and dad worrying at home about me being out on the roads. And this was well before mobile phones there was no way for them to know where I was.

My thoughtlessness continued at university. I was in northern Ireland, no mobile phones, the only way my mum and dad could contact me was by writing a letter or ringing the owner of the local newsagent shop who would come and knock on my door to say ‘your mother’s on the phone again!’

It’s only now that my children have grown do I realise the impact me moving so far away and so out of contact would have had on my parents. They must have been worried sick!

To make matters worse I managed to hit a car while I was away at uni and had to sort out the damage on insurance. I phoned my mum to talk through a letter I’d received. I had to use a phone box as I didn’t have a landline in my digs.

While on the phone a great gust of wind pulled the letter from my hand.

‘Oh, sorry Mum,’ I said. The wind’s blown the letter onto the train tracks. I’ll just go and grab it. I’ll call you back.’ And hung up.

And you know what I did next? (A great wash of guilt and shame hits me whenever I remember this). I ran to get the letter, went home, AND DIDN’T CALL MY MOTHER BACK! If my son or daughter had done that to me I would never forgive them.

I left the poor woman stuck in England with no means of contacting me convinced her only daughter had been hit by a train while clambering onto the tracks. I still can’t believe I was so stupid.

My mum still worries about me and I’m in my 50s. Now I feel terrible for all the times I’ve forgotten to call to say I’ve arrived safely, or set off across Europe with nothing more than my passport and a handful of francs in my pocket – or not let her know I hadn’t been smushed by a train.

And now it’s my turn to worry. My teenagers have turned out to be as thoughtless as I was – talk about Karma.          

So here we are, Rob and I, huddled over our phones checking our teenagers are safe as they scamper about the country with friends. Relief only comes when they are back safe and sound in their beds under our roof. I have a nasty feeling that I will always worry about them, such is being a parent.

So really what this post is about is not getting so cross with my son when he goes off on a jaunt without a backward glance but most of all, most of all, it’s to say … sorry Mum.