Today marks the second time my son has driven a vehicle. Once yesterday with his father around an empty parking lot, and now today with me. Two parents with distinctly different driving styles trying to impart our wisdom on our eldest son.
Whose hand is that? That looks like a man’s hand. Not a seventeen year old boy’s. How did we get to this day so quickly? I remember holding him when he was a baby and thinking about this very day. I used to shoo that thought away. There is no more shooing.
I may want time to stop, but hands and feet wait for no one. They keep growing if you like it or not. On the bright side, they are just the right size for stepping on a brake. There’s that.
It’s funny how we each have completely different perspectives on this momentous event. He is thinking freedom, girls, adventure, girls, new life experiences, but still…. mostly girls.
I’m thinking oh my God this is my baby, distracted drivers, breakdowns, deer jumping out of the woods, rage filled drivers, drunk drivers, and girls. All very dangerous each in their own way.
I’m also thinking about him leaving. Like growing up and leaving. A thought that I haven’t really entertained much until recently. You see, this kid of mine- we’ve been butting heads a lot lately. I hear that’s normal. Teens and moms sometimes don’t mix.
But if I were to be totally honest, I have a hard time with the idea of him leaving and not coming back. I guess that’s the way it’s supposed to be, but it sort of sucks.
We spend all of these years raising these little ducklings, and then we are supposed to let them fly? Part of me wants to clip his wings so he can’t. Wrap him up in bubble wrap so that he bounces his way through life.
However, in my heart I know he is supposed to have his freedom, his adventures, and even the dang girl. So, I have to let him go. No bubble wrap, my hand off the emergency break, with the hope that everything I taught him over the years will kick into gear.