ORANGE COUNTY VOICES DRIVER’S ED : Dad Buckles His Seat Belt and Hopes He’s Steered Son in Right Direction : When Junior gets his permit, the rest of the family just goes along for the ride to ‘the greatest day of his life.’ There are some bumps on the road to a license.

My wife couldn’t resist going back upstairs to tuck our son in for a second time that night. “Mom, this was the greatest day of my life,” he said with a smile so big it almost bent his retainer.

“Greatest day of his life?” I thought when she relayed the conversation. That says a lot. This kid is a sports fanatic who has run the base paths at Anaheim Stadium and walked down the Forum tunnel with Kareem. He’s already discovered girls--she asked him to a Homecoming dance--and the staples are pretty loose on the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated.

So what made day No. 5,846 in his life so special? Suffice to say that No. 5,844 was his 16th birthday and No. 5,845 was the afternoon he got his driver’s license.

For dad, it was the most definitive sign yet of middle age. My son, Jason, driving?

Wasn’t it only yesterday that he was riding a Big Wheel? The one he drove off the patio deck into a culvert?

The beginning of the end was when he got his learner’s permit in October. Eight weeks in the classroom, two weeks in the simulator and less than three hours behind the wheel of a real automobile qualified him to drive in Southern California. Oh well, if Gov. Deukmejian says so. After all, my mother learned to drive on a tractor in an Indiana cornfield during the Depression and has never been in a serious accident.

I lost a 1-1 vote at home to take him to the Department of Motor Vehicles. I must confess, it is not my favorite place. Thank the Lord for the appointment system. The hours of waiting have been reduced to minutes. I plunked down the most expensive $10 bill I’ll probably ever spend, and he got his test. He missed five questions. The maximum to pass is six. Several had to do with the colors of curbs, so no big deal. But his problem with the “Yield Right of Way” rules struck some fearful chords.

“Practice hard and we’ll see you in February,” said the clerk. “God, not just Deukmejian, willing,” I thought.

Our year-old Mazda mini-van seemed an ideal test car. It has plenty of glass for visibility and an automatic transmission. It also can make erratic turns, lurching stops and wheel-spinning starts that were not included in the sales brochure.

“Was I this bad as a beginner?” I thought to myself. The mechanical process should be the easy part. Judging speed, following distances and merging traffic is what separates the drivers from the bus riders. And what about freeways?

“We never drove on one,” Jason said matter-of-factly.

“You passed driver’s education in Southern California and didn’t get on a freeway?” I asked in ever-rising octaves.

To alleviate this shortcoming we let him drive on our Christmas trip to his aunt’s house--in Las Vegas. Talk about rolling the dice. Jason and I rode alone in my mother-in-law’s car (I’ll fix her), in which we’d be coming home a few days early. Trailing in the van were my wife, my 12-year-old daughter and my in-laws.

The traffic was light and the 275-mile jaunt mostly uneventful. He did a good job of looking over his shoulder when preparing to change lanes. Staying in his lane while doing so proved more complex.

“You can’t read Braille, so stay off those lane markers,” I implored.

As January rolled by, there was progress. The turns were smoother and the starts and stops were more easily distinguishable. We went in and out of numerous parking stalls. Parallel parking has gone the way of the Edsel and no longer is on the driving test, so we save about 1,000 practice hours there.

Day No. 5,845 arrived. It was a Monday, naturally. I picked him up after school about 45 minutes ahead of his appointment so we could take a “cram” course on the way. He did better. And if all the idiots we saw on the road that afternoon could pass a driving test, how tough could it be?

Back to the DMV office. “Pull your vehicle around to the south side of the building,” the clerk said. I immediately headed for a nearby bench with a copy of the National to divert my attention.

The examiner was a woman. Less threatening, I thought. She said hello and had my son sign something. A will? Then she asked him to display the proper arm signals. So far, so good.

“Turn on your right-turn indicator,” I heard her say. Immediately the taillight began blinking. The left one. I turned to the hockey box scores. (“I thought she said left,” he explained on the way home.)

They headed down the street and out of my line of sight. I concentrated on the NBA standings, all the while listening for screeching brakes, sirens, rescue helicopters or any other sign of trouble.

Sooner than you can say “How much did your insurance rates go up?” they were back. I tried to look disinterested as they approached, searching for some telltale body language. Either he couldn’t restrain his joy or his braces were bothering him, because his lips began to form a smile.

“I aced it,” he beamed.

She read the cards a little differently, but he passed. A scintillating 74. The minimum passing grade is 70.

While waiting in line for the incriminating mug shot, he rapidly outlined his plans for Day No. 5,846.

“Since you will be out of town starting tomorrow, Mom can drive the pickup truck (five-speed on the floor; too complex for today’s driver’s ed classes) and I’ll drive the van to school,” he said as if he hadn’t planned this itinerary for months. “I’ll pick up Brandon and Trevor and take them to school, then after school I can drive some of the basketball team to our pregame meal. After the game, I’ll pick up Traci from dance lessons for Mom. Then we want to go to Sonic’s drive-in for hamburgers.”

“We’ll see,” I said, still waiting in line. I wouldn’t let him know that we already had decided to give him his reins for the week to get it out of his system. “I’ll be in Fresno, so I should be safe.”

Like a bolt of lightning from above, the camera’s flash went off. It was official.

He barely touched the ground as we exited the building. He slid in behind the wheel, and I took up my familiar position to the right. But no longer was I an instructor. I was simply a passenger.

We’ve moved into April without incident. The novelty has waned and the reality of gas and insurance costs has been sobering. I also played a trick on him. He and his buddies drove to a college baseball game. In the middle innings, I moved the van to the other side of the parking lot. When he got home that night, he came right to our room.

“Thanks, Dad,” he said with indignation. “I about wet my pants.”

“Get used to it,” I warned. “Wait until your son starts driving.”