My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as my toddler heckled me from her car seat.
“You don’t like being a driver, Mummy,” she piped up through a mouthful of biscuit. The driving lesson with my husband hadn’t even begun and the choc-chip-laden bribe wasn’t enough to buy her silence. “You like being a
passenger.”
The dry heat of summer was yet to hit my regional hometown of Wagga Wagga, New South Wales but sweat still pooled behind my knees.
My husband and I traded wry looks. “Sometimes Mum is the driver,” he told her. “Like today. Today Mum is practising her driving.”