In the 1970s a new expression found its way into American jargon: Quality Time.

According to Wikipedia: “$$$separatequote$$$‘Quality time’$$$separateqote$$$” is an informal reference to time spent with close family that is in some way important special or productive. It may also refer to time spent performing some favorite activity.”

Generally the phrase is used to denote a special time alone with a loved one. As parents we often think of quality time as a trip to a special place or a vacation spot with one of our children.

My daughter Aviva was reaching one of those critical points in life that represents a turning point in maturation one of those moments forever enshrined as a rite of passage for all young people as they transition from child to adult and from immaturity to responsibility. I am referring to the trip to the Division of Motor Vehicles to become initiated into the American obsession of driving by obtaining your very own driver’s license.

Coupled with the significant achievement of joining the ranks of the 150 million plus Americans who drive there’s another rite of passage one experiences when one goes to the DMV and that of course is realizing that to get a license you must learn to wait in lines. Not just one line; you must wait in a line to have the right to wait in another line only to be told at the end of that line that you must wait at the end of yet a third or fourth. Woe to the person who dares to get in line without having their obligatory six-point proof of being a member in good standing of the human race. My daughter and I were number 122 and the count had only reached 88. And so we did what all good Americans do when they are at the DMV. We waited.

We waited and we waited. We listened to a young woman tell whoever would listen that she was born in a military installation in Germany came to the States at five and grew up on various army bases all over the country and therefore she isn’t sure where she resides. We watched a young teenager stare at my beard and long coat irrespective of the warm weather and shake his head in disbelief.

Finally after what seemed like an eternity Aviva and I triumphantly exited the cacophonous DMV with her license proudly in her hand.

As we drove home (I drove; how much excitement can one father have in one day?) I mentioned to Aviva how long we’d had to wait for the procrastinating and disinterested civil servants to slowly process our paperwork. And as we peered at the large traffic jam forming in front of us we realized we’d now be further delayed.

I looked at Aviva and I must confess: My patience was running thin as I kept thinking of all the places I had to be and all the people I had to meet. I sighed out loud and Aviva asked “Ta what’s wrong?”

I answered with a not-too-concealed sense of exasperation “We left the house over two-and- half hours ago it’s taking so much time!”

Without missing a beat Aviva turned to me and softly said “Tatty I don’t mind. This way we get to spend more time together.”

Suddenly I silently prayed for more traffic as I thanked Hashem for blessing me with a daughter whose priorities are more pristine than those of her “refined” father.