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“Let me love you a little more before you’re not little anymore . . .”
Anonymous
We have a new driver in the house. Well, sort of.
My fifteen-year-old got his learner’s permit over spring
break. And while I could write an entire book on the
insanity of actually navigating the agonizing process,
the greatest takeaway, for me, was that he and I did it
together.
We’re approaching number fifteen . . . of our
eighteen summers.
On this particular day, my son and I left the house
at the crack of dawn thinking we’d be getting ahead of
the crowds that were known for gathering quickly at
the area DMV offices. When we pulled up, there were
already forty people ahead of us—thirty minutes prior
to opening—which grew to sixty by the time we’d
decided to bail. Spring break may not have been the
best time to try to get a permit.
On the off chance that we may have better luck
somewhere else, we drove to another DMV office
where we found nearly a hundred in line ahead of us.
Yep, spring break was definitely a bad idea.
At this point, both of us were frustrated—not to
mention disappointed. So much emphasis is put on
this whole “rite of passage” thing. Actually enduring
the process makes it a real pain, too.
On a whim, we decided to go to Vicksburg. I mean,
what’s another 35 minutes, right? We got to the testing
office and there were five people in line—and I’m pretty
sure that three of those people were there for support.
Twenty-two minutes later we were done. And in an
instant, the mood lifted. My son had passed his test,
and I was so thankful to be there to be a part of it.
He’ll be driving on his own by his sixteenth summer.
It’s so ironic how the things in which we want our
children to succeed are the very things that lead them
away from us. I mean, what parent doesn’t dream of
their kid making a 36 on the ACT? And yet the better
they do, the farther they go. Life is bittersweet that way.
No one tells you that the hardest part of motherhood
is when your kids grow up.
* * *
My husband has been absolutely amazing about
planning summer trips for our family for as long as
we’ve been able to easily travel. Facebook memories
take me back to past vacations and serve as a wonderful
reminder of how we’ve invested our time together.
Last summer we spent several nights out of state
playing in a select-team baseball tournament. We found
a local spot for dinner about a half-mile from our condo
—all the while, my son busy texting his buddies from
the team. Apparently they were all gathered up and
headed to the pool.
He announced at the restaurant that he was going
to head back to catch up with his friends—which
meant he was planning to walk since his dad and
I had not yet finished eating.
So he left. “I’ll see ya’ll,” he said.
He just walked out of the restaurant and down
the road a full half-mile, by himself. And as absolutely
ridiculous as it sounds, I teared up. It seemed like mere
moments had passed since he and I had last crossed a
busy street together making a huge production out of
looking both ways—he holding my index finger, me as
his protector.
Being mentally prepared and emotionally prepared
are two entirely different things when it comes to our
kids leaving. And the changes that come, at least at our
particular stage in life, seem to be coming at warp speed.
* * *
So after my son passed his permit exam we started our
journey home. There was a confidence about him that
had not been quite as evident on the trip over. He was
proud of himself. I was proud of him, too. It was one of
those moments that he and I will never forget. We had
won—together.
And then, as if the anxiety of it had drained him
completely dry, he slept all the way home. It felt like he
was four again. My baby.
Learning to let go is hard, but we do it. A driver’s
license here, a later curfew there, more freedom, more
choices—we let go and they grow.
So here we are at the boundary between childhood
and everything that comes after. Now comes the time
for pure faith and endless prayer as the fifteenth summer
is spent getting ready for the sixteenth. Sooner than
later my son will roll out of our driveway on to bigger
and greater things.
And eighteen summers doesn’t seem nearly long
enough for this mama to prepare . . .
Hometown Rankin • 79