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Preparing for the Journey of Parenthood
I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the car door handle as if it were my lifeline. I wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but I had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t be good. In those excruciatingly long seconds, my life flashed before me, and I found myself pondering how my family would react to the news of my impending crash.
Time stretched on, and surprisingly, I felt no impact or heard any clatter of metal meeting metal. It struck me as odd that I wasn’t enveloped by shards of glass. My ears were filled with my own hyperventilating breaths instead of screams. The only conclusion I could draw was that the accident must have been so catastrophic that everyone else had lost consciousness. I must be in shock, having already blocked out the memory of the impact.
Feeling a movement to my left, I realized I had to open my eyes and assess what had happened. “Wow, the first responders came quickly,” I thought, or perhaps I had been out for a while.
Gathering every ounce of courage, I cautiously opened one eyelid, then the other. The scene before me was bewildering. No blood, no broken bones, no mangled wreckage—just me and my young son, as we had done countless times over the years. But this time felt off.
My little boy, the same one I taught to ride a bike just last week, was now in the driver’s seat. His hands were confidently placed at 10 and 2, and he looked over at me with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I took that turn a little too fast, Mom. That was a close one,” he said while steering into our driveway.
He turned off the engine, and we sat in comfortable silence, the ticking of the cooling motor blending with the sound of the neighbor’s lawnmower on one of summer’s last days.
Now, he can legally drive my car, which is both thrilling and terrifying. Part of my fear comes from relinquishing control in more ways than one. But the bigger issue is that it serves as a stark reminder of how quickly he’s growing up, which also means I’m aging too.
Gone are the days of singing the alphabet song and convincing him that closing his eyes for five minutes was just as good as napping. Those days of diapers and sleepless nights are long behind us. Most of the time, I’m fine with that.
Having a teenager brings its own joys. I’m now the one waking him up on weekends, and vacations are a breeze compared to the chaos of traveling with a toddler. It’s incredible to engage in real conversations with him and discover that he knows things I never learned.
Obtaining a driver’s license is a rite of passage for any teen, especially in our suburban area. It symbolizes growing independence and adulthood, and it makes this 41-year-old mom feel a little more ancient.
I won’t lie; I miss the days when my little guy rolled around the driveway in his toddler truck, but I also want him to embrace this new chapter and all it entails.
I know there will be many more nerve-wracking moments ahead. It’s tough to transition from being in control of my child’s life for the last 15 years to seeing him literally in the driver’s seat. It’s unsettling.
As I stepped out of the car, I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror. Were there more gray hairs now than thirty minutes ago? Definitely.
So concluded another mother-son driving lesson. The next time he asks for a practice drive, perhaps I’ll suggest we make a stop at the salon to address this latest sign of aging. Or maybe I’ll just focus on keeping my eyes open and my breathing steady as he navigates those turns.
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Summary:
This blog captures the bittersweet experience of watching a child grow up, highlighting the mix of nostalgia and pride that comes with milestones like learning to drive. As a mother reflects on the joys and challenges of parenting a teenager, she confronts her own feelings about aging and letting go.