Two words: Potty training. I faced off with my toddler, bringing my best mothering skills to the fray: mind-reading, deciphering of body language and crying-toddler-speak, travel strategies to incorporate the highest number of bathrooms per mile, patience to wait for the big event, and perhaps most importantly, bribery and poo-poo parties.

I have helped usher six human beings into a dry and diaper-free existence. I am a potty-training veteran.

It was to be a short-lived glory. Less than two years after my baby graduated to big boy undies, two new words came to afflict me: Driver Training.

It begins with a class, usually online. Then off to the DMV for the paperwork and written test needed to get a Driver’s Permit. Once they are officially a behind-the-wheel learner, a licensed driver over 25 must drive with them as they practice for 50 hours. That would be me.

That is a lot of time to drive around, keeping a running commentary going of observations and instruction, pointers and reprimands. You’re too close to that (fill in the blank). You’re going too fast. Did you check your blind spot? Don’t change lanes now! Check your blind spot! Do you see that pedestrian. STOP!

It’s not for the faint of heart, or the nervous. I am a calm person, which just means–in driver training, at least–that I can stifle my screams better than my husband when it looks like we are headed for disaster.

Some of my new drivers have had an easier time than others mastering the skill of navigating a large, heavy machine, but all have had close calls, scrapes and near misses. It has been especially challenging to learn to drive in Berkeley, where every street is narrow and the amount of obstacles, distractions and strange situations is almost comical.

There is some unique challenge or sticky situation on every training run. Trucks–delivery, garbage, moving, you name it–stopped in traffic, backing into traffic, going against traffic. Pedestrians pushing or pulling large carts or trailers down the middle of the street, or striding out into crosswalks with abandon. Cyclists passing on the left and right, turning in front or blocking the lane. Construction stopping or re-routing traffic. Everybody in a hurry all the time. My blood pressure goes up just thinking about it. My only consolation is that the speed limit is 25 in the whole city, so at least a crash won’t be at high speeds.

I try to look at the positive side of those 50 hours. There is no other way I would get to spend that much time with my sweet teenager. It’s a combination of something they want–the independence of a license–with something I want–time to sit and talk–that I can use to my advantage.

I tend to say the same things over and over, reminding them to “check left, check right, check left again because that’s the car that’s going to hit you first”–words from my driving instructor so long ago–and to “watch your mirrors so you know who is around you at all times,” among many other catchy phrases. I get sick of saying them, so they must get sick of hearing them, but my goal is to for them to hear my loving voice whispering safety tips in their ear every time they take the wheel. I hope someday they will appreciate it.

Two months ago, I finished my last driver training ordeal. It seemed like it would go on forever, but then, suddenly, it was over. It did get intense at the end. My two youngest children were in the process of getting their license at the same time; one finished in June, the other in August. Teaching both at once was good, because it shortened the duration of active training, but a little crazy because, well, two at once.

I’m so happy it’s over. I can actually look back fondly on those hours spent tooling around town, talking about driving, but also about whatever else was on our minds. I’m pleased I was able to stick it out. I’m glad, I suppose, that I wasn’t able to afford to pay a professional driver to take over all those hours, like I daydreamed about.

I’m done! Now, of course, they are all on the road without me there to tell them how to stay safe, which has it’s own worries.