I am teaching my oldest daughter, who I have nicknamed Rebel Dancing Daughter, how to drive.

She is a bit of a rebel, and she does like dancing, so the name suits her.

I am not sure that driving suits her.

I now have minor whip lash.

My foot has darn near ground a hole into the floor of the passenger seat where the “second” brake should be.

We have driven through a stop sign. We have rolled up on a curb. We have come within an inch of demolishing our mailbox. Today we nearly hit a parked truck. We took a corner on almost two wheels. I shrieked. We flirted with driving straight into a ditch.

My hair is turning white, I know it.

When Rebel Dancing Daughter is driving she jokingly calls people walking on the sidewalk “Targets,” because she doesn’t want to hit them. She calls oncoming traffic, “The Enemy.” She calls any cars behind her “Stalkers.”

I remember when my late father taught me how to drive. I learned on a stick. It didn’t go well. We lurched, we stalled, I cried. Driving with me at that age could only be compared to a slingshot. Catapult forward, sling back. Repeat.

My father was endlessly patient. He talked in a calm voice. He was encouraging and kind. One time I was going too fast as I took a corner. I passed the island with the trees in the middle and careened up the wrong side of the road.

I got flustered and made mistakes. I was moody, temperamental, and snappy.

He responded with more patience. The man was a devout Catholic, honest as could be, and had at one time thought of becoming a priest.

He decided he wanted a wife and kids more.

He had a degree in engineering, specializing in nuclear engineering, from UCLA and an MBA, also from UCLA. He flew jets for the Navy and when his eyes went bad and he had to quit, he was devastated. But he met my mother, the love of his life, at UCLA.

He worked in information technology in management, starting when computers were as big as a room. I know the stress of working a corporate job wore on him, day after day, though he never complained. He believed that a man should provide for his family and protect, and that’s what he did.

And when it was time to teach his four teenagers to drive, some of us more wild than others, he did it.

In fact, he taught us more than how to drive a car. He taught us how to drive in life, if I can be completely sappy here.

He taught us about unending love, kindness, loyalty, and faith. He taught us to value hard work and academics.

He taught us how to treat others, especially others who had tough lives. He taught us how not to judge harshly, to speak with respect to everyone, and to never think we were an inch above anyone else, because we weren’t.

He taught us how to make homemade vanilla ice cream and buttermilk pancakes and to love camping and hiking. Into his sixties he could still run a seven and a half minute mile, so he taught us how to love speed – on foot.

My dad could always cut through the emotional tangles when I came to him for advice, which I often did. He could boil my problem down to simple answers. All of his answers circled around what was the right way to respond, the moral way.

He made it seem simple, but that’s because he came from simple goodness.

I still miss him, and I have been thinking about him a lot these past week as I teach Rebel Dancing Daughter how to drive.

It’s a frightening experience, but I hope she will look back at me, as I look back on my father, now long gone, and believe that not only did I teach her how to drive a car without hitting any “targets,” I taught her how to drive through life.

Meanwhile, I will hang onto the door handle as if my life depended on it.