It’s possible that I’ve explored this topic in days gone by, I tend to block out painful experiences, but when they’re experienced again I find it therapeutic to write about them to rid myself of the demons. You people are much more economical and understanding than a shrink.

Somehow I always seem to draw the short straw when that fateful day arrives that it becomes necessary to introduce our children to the wonderful world of the Department of Motor Vehicles. My wife will fain rickets, the plague, scurvy or even dare use work as an excuse to get out of this parental purgatory. I guess it makes up for the whole child birthing thing. I witnessed that messy ordeal, and although it appeared to create a bit of discomfort for my wife, it didn’t take nearly as long as a trip to the DMV.

I made no less than three pilgrimages to this village of the disgruntled with my daughter a couple of years ago and found myself venturing down the very same trail of tears with my son a few days ago so he could have a go at securing a learners permit. My wife was kind enough to ease the pain a bit by rounding up the plethora of documentation required for this rite of passage in advance. You need less documentation to purchase an automatic weapon.

I’ve never bought an automatic weapon but I’m fairly certain the first question on the application is, “Will you be making a trip to the DMV sometime in the next 78 years” and if you answer “yes” your application is promptly denied and you are placed on a “probable terror suspect” list.

When my son and I walked into the DMV I immediately recognized all the poor souls behind the counter that were busy explaining to people, “I’m sorry that’s not the right documentation. Those were the right documents when you arrived but we changed our policies while you were standing in line.” My son looked at me and said, “Everyone working here looks so pale.” Pale and unflinching while the red faced and angry rummaged through their pile of documents to try and find the elusive proof that they are who they claim to be. Whoever they were when they came in is not who they are now…and may never be again.

The only people smiling are the teenagers, either because they are getting a license or because their parents are being reduced to tears by some pale stranger in a wrinkled government issued polo shirt. I suspect the latter. I’m certain that the phrase, “misery loves company” was born in the DMV…and will probably die there as well.

To make a short story long, Jackson missed passing the exam by one point. One lousy point. I suspect he did it on purpose as pay back for me not buying him a pony when he was six. Teenagers are spiteful that way. Maybe a pony’s not such a bad idea. I don’t think the DMV has any authority over the issuance of a pony riding license. We’ve got a spare bedroom and our dog could use a buddy.