My driving permit with the unsmiling picture of me in a headscarf was hidden away in my safe deposit box, together with some cash, my birth certificate, my passport, Seth’s birth certificate, and a stack of invoices and proof of income in case I needed my financial records someday. For identification I used my old non-driver’s license with the almost unrecognizable picture of me with a strewn ponytail, glasses, and a round baby face.It was time for the ID to come forth from hiding.The plan had been all along to learn to drive; I just couldn’t find the audacity to go with the plan. Driving was the most unwomanly thing I could do; it was crossing a very vivid line. I remember standing in our parking lot with Roisy and the other girls of the block, dancing in front of cars where we saw our bodies shrink and stretch into pudgy little people, when someone turned into the driveway. I watched, fascinated, as a woman with a wig emerged from the driver’s seat. I looked after her as she closed the door of her car and purposefully walked up to a neighbor’s house.“A mamma drives!” We all gasped. How could it be!