I am delighted to share this sweet essay by my friend Deb (who is also 50):
Shortly before I turned 50, my son turned 16. The irony was not lost on me. As I sit at a crossroads, contemplating the roads taken and not taken, my son plans his exodus into the wide world. As I yearn for the back roads and byways, he seeks the route that will jettison him quickly to the next destination point. As I move increasingly toward the slow lane, he is merging into the express lane.
We’ve logged a lot of miles together. The mile markers, the detours, the bumps in the road were part of a larger journey where I was the driver and he was the (mostly) willing passenger. When he was small, we sang Disney tunes and shared fruit snacks.
As he got older, we discussed current events (his), life lessons (mine), and traded thoughts on religion and philosophy in the relative safety of the car. Increasingly, his preferences dictated our background music. The soft rock station was replaced by Miles Davis, the Who, and Beethoven—sometimes all in the same trip.
My required stops were eclipsed by a whirlwind of practices and social obligations completely unrelated to me. Currently, we work driving practice into an already packed schedule. I went from driver to chauffer to instructor. One day I realized that quite literally, I was becoming the passenger in my son’s life. Soon he will be on his own.
As I slide into the passenger seat, I have to come to terms with a few things. My son has good reflexes. He has good judgment. He will gain experience and confidence as he gains seat time. There will be worries and sleepless nights. Is he safe enough? Can he anticipate the dangers as he travels down life’s highway?
Mostly, I will miss the time we spent together in the car. I hope he will report back on his adventures—what he has seen and where he has traveled. I know too, that someday the tables will turn. I will be the one being driven to my appointments and obligations. Perhaps we will sing a few Disney tunes. The Who would be okay too.
This takes on special meaning for me in the light of a recent collision I had. I was driving my V-6 sedan and hit a 13 year-old who was on his bike. Fortunately he was ok, and his dad (who at about 7 feet tall could easily have killed me) was very kind about it, but Jesus, talk about every mother's worst nightmare: your kid's out there, doing something a little dopey (like riding on the wrong side of the road, and not wearing his helmet, and not watching for motorists)....and BAMMO. God help all moms everywhere to remember that most kids survive. Most kids survive. Most kids survive.
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