"I wonder what it's like to have parents who stay together," mused Sophia (17).
Sophia is of an age when it's time to ask the big questions.
"Will I have children one day?" (Not if that makes me Grandma, you won't).
And, "Is hair straightening over?" Yes, yes it is.
From first ball gown to first divorce, the road to womanhood is filled with stiletto-breaking landmarks.
My approach to mothering is similar to baking a cake without a recipe, but despite my shortcomings, or because of them, the bun from my oven is turning out marvellously.
Not in jail, not pregnant, and employed by people not related to her.
Hurrah! Back in the day, we muddled along not thinking much of passing exams, leaving school, buying a car, a house, owning a cat, having children because -let's face it - these things just sort of happen to you.
Kids today have a real sense of celebrating rites of passage, because it's so damned hard to do pretty much anything now, with the nanny state hovering over you in case you skin a knee and run to ACC.
Surrounded by the cloying candyfloss of protection, the steps to adulthood are all the more remarkable if you actually make them - and aren't still living with your parents when you're 33, too scared to leave home, in case you get a haematoma.
These accomplishments remind me of the economist's scout blanket with badges sewn on for various achievements.
Instead of lighting fires and abseiling, for Sophia it's choosing a boyfriend, having enough stylish clothes to wear, saving for that first big purchase and getting your driver's licence, surely one of the most significant, and I should know.
Or not know, as the case may be.
Unlike talking and wearing frocks, driving isn't something the Scott women are famed for doing well.
I still recall the noise my mother's car made when, listening out for her return as a child, she drove straight through the garage doors.
Our driveway is very narrow.
Reversing down it, I career from side to side.
"Is that a new scratch?" asks the economist every time he drives the car (perhaps this is why he refuses to buy the new Holden).
Unbelievably, my driving has improved greatly since my first boyfriend tried to teach me.
Approaching a roundabout, he indicated with his hand towards the right, "Go that way", he said.
He meant, after we left the roundabout.
As I turned into the oncoming traffic, he screamed just like a little girl.
The day I sat my full licence, heading up over Lookout Point, from the top of the rise I spotted a 100km sign.
I sped up to meet it.
"Abort, abort!" the instructor shouted hysterically.
"That's an immediate fail, return to base, return to base."
Undeterred, I persevered with driving on my restricted, doing fairly well until I knocked one of those parking warden chaps off his scooter.
"Soooory!" I said, twinkling my fingers out the car window.
In the rear view mirror I could see him staggering to his feet, shouting something.
Later that month I read in the court news that he had been sentenced to an anger management course.
On a good day, I drive like Cruella de Ville running down Dalmatians.
On a bad day I mount the pavement with the disregard for legal recriminations displayed by customers of the tinny house down the road.
When Sophia was learning the Road Code in readiness for sitting her learner's, she took great delight in posing me all the questions.
"Are you crazy?" shrieked the economist.
"Don't ask her, she won't know!"On the day of the test Sophia was very nervous.
When she arrived home, I asked her how it went.
"Well, I just thought, what would mum do? And did the opposite," she said.
She passed with flying colours.
So the pedestrians and parking meter wardens of Dunedin need fear the white Camry no longer.
Behind the wheel is my chick, getting ready to leave the nest, soaring on wings beneath which I am the wind, an albatrossity.
I wonder if she'll give me a lift to the shops.
The Diary
Elizabeth Rees "in motion" Milford Galleries.
Paintings of runners, cooler than it sounds.
Rust, Sydney street punk, Musicians Club, Thursday, March 4.
Grrrr.
Salmonella Dub Sammy's, Saturday, March 13.
Calling all Pasifika rockers and tick-tockers.
Connan Mockasin album release, Chicks, Friday, March 19.
Written in a Wellington haunted house and featuring unicorns and cats, a guaranteed good timeThis month is a good time to . . .
Beware the brides of March.
