While riding home from al-Azhar park this evening, Rachel looked up at me and said, “I want to drive a taxi in Egypt.”
“Here we are,” I answered as smoothly the genie from Aladdin's lamp, “Driving in a taxi…and we’re in Egypt. Your wish is my command.”
“But I’m not driving!” she shouted.
“Oh! You want to drive the taxi in Egypt?”
“Yes, duh, Mom!”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Yes! I want you to get him out of his chair and let me drive!”
I told Andrew what she said.
“You can drive when you’re sixteen,” he told her, “Right now you’re only two so you still have fourteen years to go.”
“And I don’t know about the taxi part,” I added, “Or the Egypt part.”
“Well,” Rachel sniffed and pointed at the driver, “How old is he?”
“He’s at least sixteen. Maybe closer to forty.”
“Well, I’m going to be sixteen when I drive!”
“You go, girl.”
Is it too soon to discuss who is going to teach her how to drive?
I vote Andrew.