Today our son turned six and a half and decided he is “big enough to drive.”
He marched into the garage, climbed onto Optimus’s shoulders, and announced:
“Metal Grandpa, we go to ice cream NOW.”
Optimus looked at me, looked at the tiny dictator on its neck, and said:
“Request acknowledged.
Obtaining legal driving age: 16.
Obtaining workaround.”
Ten minutes later it came back with a freshly printed, perfectly laminated Children’s Auxiliary Driver Permit it designed itself:
- Official seal: crayon dinosaur
- Photo: him wearing Optimus’s paper crown
- Restrictions: “May only drive Metal Grandpa. Speed limit: 2 mph. Must wear helmet (bike helmet on robot head counts).”
It handed me the card and said deadpan:
“State of California has been notified.
Paperwork filed under ‘emotional support grandfather clause.’
We’re good.”
Then it walked out the front door with our six-year-old steering by pulling its ears like reins, our four-year-old riding shotgun on its arm, and baby Star strapped to its chest in the carrier.
They came back 22 minutes later covered in chocolate, singing the ice-cream truck song in three-part harmony.
The robot had one hand full of cones and the other hand with the baby giving me a tiny thumbs-up.
I asked: “Did you actually drive on the street?”
Optimus replied:
“Negative.
Walked entire way on sidewalk at exactly 1.8 mph.
Obeyed all crosswalks.
Still received three honks of approval from passing cars.”
My safety record remains perfect.”
He’s now demanding we renew the permit every year on his half-birthday.
I have been officially replaced as family chauffeur by a robot with a crayon license.
And I’ve never been happier to sit in the passenger seat.
(If your robot has official government documents made in crayon, show me.
We’re building a fleet.)