So we are walking to the car and Crappy Boy asks:
The answer is no. He can’t drive.
He asks me why he can’t drive.
So I tell him he isn’t old enough to drive. He is five.
He sounds a little offended. You see, he takes incredible pride in being five. Five, to him, is old. He can do anything at this age!
So I explain that he has to be older:
He has to be 16. (I know, technically with an adult and a permit he can drive at 15. But I’m just keeping it simple here, okay?)
He asks me why 16 is the magical driving age. I blather on about being mature at that age or some shit. (Yes, I know there is a push to raise the US driving age to 18. Do. Not. Care. Also, this is irrelevant to this story. Also? Do. not. care.)
He asks what “mature” means and I tell him something about making good choices. (Because we all know that 16-year-olds make only good choices.)
So he explains that he makes good choices and is, thus, mature. Oops. Fail. Can’t argue with that one. So I add something about being “fully grown” and then I repeat the age 16 thing. It is just the way it is.
And again, he wants to know why it is the way it is. Sigh.
So I say that thing I don’t say too often. It is a distant cousin of “because I said so” and I only resort to it when I’ve explored other avenues of explanation.
Getting the law involved seems to work. He knows it is out of my hands. (No, I don’t say “it’s the law” when he asks why he has to go to bed at night. Tempting though, tempting.)
I think for a moment that he is going to drop the subject. He is quiet for a bit.
Then he suddenly says:
And this is why five-year-olds can’t drive.
Also? When. I. Write. With. Periods. After. Each. Word. I. Sound. Like. A. Robot. So. I. Can’t. Stop. Doing. It. Please. Help.