22 • May/June 2018 18 Summers Mary Ann Kirby
“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 madison • 23