I refer to my firstborn child, Ford, as the “human weed whacker.” As he maneuvers through life’s missteps and hard lessons, each one rising up to smack him in the face, he is simultaneously blazing a convenient, well-trodden path for his siblings behind him. It’s the duty of the oldest sibling. He cuts the path, and everyone else drafts off his misfortunes and heartbreak.

But the truth is that Ford and I have actually been cutting the trail together. As soon as the doctor handed him to me and forgot to give me the parents’ instruction booklet, I began making mistakes. I was sure there would be a test before the hospital let 24-year-old me leave and become responsible for a 7- pound human being. But it turns out hospitals just cut you loose and wish you good luck. Along the way, you figure things out, often through trial and error, but that’s of no use to the firstborn child.

Ford turned 15 in November. I can’t believe I just typed that. Sure, my baby is growing up, but more than that, I’ve awaited this phase for a long time. Besides clearing a path, it’s also the duty of the oldest sibling, once he has a license, to help transport his brothers to and from school. Which, of course, is exactly why Ford has shown no interest in driving.

The day Ford turned 15, we were taking his younger brothers, Owen and Lindell, to friends’ houses. When we walked outside, I tossed Ford the keys, which, spoiler alert, turns out wasn’t exactly legal.

I have no memory of a Driver’s Education class when I was a teenager. I only have the memory of my grandfather, Big Jack, patiently coaching me through using a stick shift while his Volvo lurched and hiccuped down the neighborhood streets. I was going to be that kind of teacher — calm and patient, like Big Jack.

“I’m not supposed to drive,” Ford said, tossing the keys back. Ford and I have a long history of me being wrong, so he was right to question.

“You’re not going to drive,” I said. “I’m just going to teach you about the controls.”

“Mom, I think I have to take a class for that.”

I tossed the keys back and motioned for him to get in the car. Sure, he understands physics better than I do, and he can add fractions in his head, but darn it, I could teach him the fundamentals of which pedal does what.

“Mom—”

“Get in the car!” I screamed, forgetting to be like Big Jack.

Owen and Lindell jumped out when Ford got in. They ran to the front steps and clung to one another. “If he’s driving, we’re not going,” they said.

I rolled down the passenger window and hung my head out to yell at them. “He’s not driving. … But you’re right to get out of the way just in case.”

Ford: “What? No!”

My plan of having a chauffeur in the near future was falling apart. I looked at Ford behind the wheel and had visions of him peddling his Cozy Coupe as a toddler. He always did pretty well at that, so this should be easy.

I put my head out again to talk to the other two, now inside the doorway of the house. “You know, once he gets his license, he’s going to be driving you guys lots of— ”

Just then, Ford let his foot off the brake. The car lurched backward and stalled, and my chin went forward toward the frame of the window.

“Who said you could let off the brake,” I yelled.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

We had a little chat about easing off the brake. I closed my eyes and channeled my inner Big Jack again. And that’s how Dustin, who was just returning from work, found us: me in the passenger seat, our son behind the wheel, and our two other children watching from the front window.

Dustin tapped on the window and asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m teaching Ford about the pedals.” Duh.

“He has to take a Driver’s Education class for that,” Dustin said.

“He’s not driving,” I started to yell again. Sheesh. And then: “A driver’s what?”

This was all news to me, just like those fluoride drops he was supposed to take as a baby. I mean, how do other parents know these things?

Dustin got in the driver’s seat, and all our boys piled into the back. As Dustin drove, he lectured me about checking the state requirements first.

“I wasn’t going to let him drive,” I said again. “I was teaching him about the pedals.”

Ford interjected with “Yeah, Dad’s right” more times than necessary.

In the backseat, Owen said he was definitely signing up for Driver’s Education as soon as he turned 15. Lindell agreed.

I turned around and smiled at Ford. Those other two have it so easy. But he and I, well, we’ve been cutting this path alone. There are no instructions, and it isn’t always easy, but by the time Ford is 18, I think we’ll have it right.