f you’ve ever tried to bridge the gap between nurturing your kids and then, inevitably, transitioning all those parental skills to the seemingly unenthusiastic realm of grandparenting, you know it’s not always a smooth journey. My daughter, Shannon, thinks highly of me (sort of) in many of life’s venues, but there were some hiccups along the way. And now that she is a mom with grown boys, my parenting style is less favored. She thinks, on occasion, I should have been arrested—she may be right.

As the saying goes, “It takes a village,” but sometimes, that village can be filled with eyerolls, judgy looks, and a chorus of, “You just don’t get it!” from your own offspring. You’d think the lessons learned through tire rotations and tool sorting would translate perfectly into familial bliss, but the reality is far more complex.

Enter the world of car enthusiasts, where life lessons seem to come strapped to the bumper of an early Bronco or stuffed into the trunk of our 1929 Ford highboy roadster. Growing up in a household steeped in automotive lore isn’t just a childhood, it’s a rite of passage. Every kid should know how to sort wrenches before they can spell w-r-e-n-c-h, right? I remember giving my daughter a roll of paper towels and Windex, plopping her onto the creeper, and sliding her under the highboy. I would tell her, “There’s lots of chrome; let’s make it shine.” That stopped as soon as the neighbors noticed what I was doing. The upshot was Daddy got a TV in the garage! Next, I attached our pair of Dobermans, Chopper and Zeus, to her stroller and let them pull her up and down the street. I carefully supervised from a beach chair appropriately positioned in the driveway. That one got me in trouble.

According to Shannon, “In my dad’s garage, the only thing more compartmentalized than my dad’s tools was our emotional hierarchy: cats, dogs, occasional turtles, cars, and then, somewhere deep down, us humans—the ‘we care for those who can’t care for themselves’ philosophy at play, even with our beloved machines. My dad enjoyed his car shows, and because he had legal and physical control over me, I spent my weekends cruising through car shows.”

As the daughter of a car guy, she learned early on that the mantra becomes, “Look but don’t touch.” Later in life, she would tell me, “Dad, the fingers of a 5-year-old are continually itching to graze the glossy surfaces of all those shiny roadsters, coupes, and big-ol’ muscle cars.” As I would find myself constantly talking to someone, I managed to stay nearby to ensure her chocolate-stained stubs didn’t defile the shiny lacquer.

Once again, according to my daughter, “Week after week, new vehicles would magically appear in our driveway, each with distinct quirks. One day, we’d be joyriding with no doors, my legs dangling perilously over the side, and the next, it’d be a late-night trek to Sears’s tool department—my childhood wonder fueled by an enticing selection of nonpareils conveniently located near the checkout.” My daughter revealed, “You should have seen me trying to explain to my friends at school on Monday what I did over the weekend.” However, it did occasionally translate to those other rare “ankle rats” who had a similar upbringing.

Teaching your kids to drive can be a very stressful experience. It’s a tale as old as time. Once again, according to my daughter, it went something like this. “Dad pulls the ultimate, ‘I’m not a taxi, I’m a teaching tool!’ move. Picture this: I’m perched on my dad’s lap, I’m 5, as we cruise down the freeway, trying to keep the car steady. The moment we pass a highway patrol car, Dad’s idea of driving safely takes a hard turn—one minute, I’m the captain of this ship, and the next, I’m exiled to the passenger side to reflect on my reckless ambition. This was long before the days of kids’ car seats; at least, that’s what Dad says!”

Fast-forward a couple of decades and now we find ourselves in new territory—Shannon is now raising her kids. They roll their eyes as I bring forth the “endearing” lessons learned on tire rotations and 8-track tapes. The grandsons chirp, “Seriously, Mom? We don’t even have 8-tracks anymore.” As a grandparent trying to infuse that same zest into one’s grandchildren, there’s a peculiar phenomenon: translating classic car jargon doesn’t always yield jubilant reactions. What once made our wheels spin now gears down into grumbling about overzealous familial expectations.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I cherish every smile thrown back at me as I reminisce about our car adventures. However, despite our best efforts, there’s that glaring chance that our charming anecdotes fall flat on contemporary ears. A lifetime of automotive prowess doesn’t always translate into the joyous rapture of today’s parenting expectations.

So, here’s to us, the generations, the car enthusiasts carrying the torch of the auto legacy and inadvertently generating eyerolls along the way. Let’s celebrate the messiness of family—because whether it’s N.O.S. parts or the baffling art of tire rotation, we will always remain a little clueless in the grand comedy of parenthood or grandparenting. Just don’t forget to remind your kids about the importance of a well-rotated set of tires—that wisdom may keep the next generation rolling smoothly!