Y’all, if you see me out somewhere and I inexplicably begin to stomp my right foot, please refrain from calling for emergency medical personnel or a tranquilizer gun.

It’s just a nervous habit I’ve picked up since my daughter Shannon turned 15 and the State of Alabama, in its infinite wisdom as demonstrated by our high ranking in education, decided she was old enough to operate two tons of steel and leather-look plastic powered by a fickle computer and a massive engine.

Who, in the name of all that is good and holy and sane, decided 15 was old enough?

It took Shannon three years to learn to color inside the lines. Now the state thinks one year is enough for her to learn to drive inside the lines — and the stakes are a little higher. When she strayed from the lines in coloring, she might miss out on a smiley-face sticker, but at least she wouldn’t end up in a hospital.

I told myself I was prepared for this.

I would not be one of those mothers who white knuckled the ceiling strap my best friend used to call the “Oh, H-E-double-hockey-sticks handle.”

I would not scream, “Watch out!” and grab the steering wheel when crossing five lanes of traffic.

And I certainly would never, under any circumstances, stomp the passenger-side floorboard in hopes it would pop out and I could use foot brakes á la Fred Flintsone in an effort to stop the car and the madness.

But during the first month of riding shotgun, my standards have changed.

Now the only rule is: Don’t look.

Let me make one thing clear (in case she’s reading this): Shannon is actually a very good driver. When she was 14, I took her to the church parking lot at night and to undeveloped subdivisions to let her drive where none of the targets were living.

She mastered basic vehicle operations and, to her credit, she never so much as hit a single construction dumpster or dinged a “Reserved for Pastor” sign.

Thanks to that training, she can drive the heck out of empty lots and vacant streets.

But then came the first time she would drive on an actual road with actual lanes meeting actual cars driven by actual people.

It was dark. First mistake.