Life is a Highway

Picture of cars driving on the highway

Colin, my first born, is driving!

How did that babe, who once suckled at my breast, grow into a licensed driver?  (He really likes it when I post things like that on the internet.)

That first morning, when he drove off to school, I felt torn.  Should I micromanage this?  Tell him to text me when he leaves, when he arrives, when he stops at a stop sign–that was a trick!  Don’t text while driving, Colin!  What’s the matter with you?!

I did not tell him to text me at all.  I’m still waiting on my Parenting Award for this.

It makes me feel better that Colin has had a lot of driving practice.  Six months ago, when he first got his permit, Colin became our main driver.  He’s driven us to cross-country meets and soccer games, out of state to visit family, to southern California on vacation.  Little brother Carson was an active participant from his car seat: “You should really try to stay in your lane,” and, “Maybe Mommy or Daddy should drive this time.”  And this gem: “I don’t want Colin driving us off a cliff.”

I was worried I’d be like Carson, clutching my door handle and yelling, “There’s a car on your right!  And on your left!  There are cars everywhere!”  But I was okay, and I’m proud to report there was very little cussing and grabbing for the steering wheel.  I assume this Parenting Award is also in the mail.

My students have told me they are nervous when their siblings drive, so I asked his sister Annabelle how she felt about Colin behind the wheel.

“It’s fine,” Annabelle said from behind her book.

“I’m terrified,” Carson piped up.  But it’s hard to tell when that kid’s just trying to get a rise out of his sibling.

“Just wait until you’re learning to drive,” Colin told him. 

“When I drive, I’ll stay in my lane,” Carson said.

But by the time Carson is driving, Colin will be an adult and will probably have outgrown saying, “I told you so.” (Or not?  Is a solid “I told you so” fulfilling at any age?)

Colin has always loved cars.  We have a video of Toddler Colin, walking through a parking lot, identifying the different car makes.  “Ford.  Chevy.  Toyota.”  When his Babu asked if he wanted a doll, he responded, “No.  It doesn’t have wheels.”  For years, Colin only dressed in vehicle shirts, and his favorite toys were Matchbox cars.  He liked holding birthday parties for the cars, and I’ve sung many rounds of “Happy birthday” to Lightning McQueen.

I was thinking about Colin’s little boy love of cars while we waited for his driving instructor to arrive.  She came out of the DMV holding a clipboard, smiled briefly, then began issuing commands in clipped tones.  She was scary.  Is this how it happened when I was 16?  And did Colin know the answers to any of these questions?  But Colin answered everything, and then he got into the driver’s seat, and the two of them drove off, while I stood on the curb.

As Colin drove away from me (heavy symbolism there, Universe), I wished something I’ve often wished–that time wasn’t linear, that it bent and twisted so I could walk across years and spend time with Colin at every age.  I’d like to hold him as a baby and watch him fall asleep in my arms.  I want to spend a day with him as a seven-year-old, back when he used to kiss me in front of his friends, take my hand on walks, and tell me every–every–detail of his school day.  And then I’d like to spend time with Teenage Colin, who’s dipping his toe into adulthood, forming his own opinions, learning who he wants to be.  Driving wherever he wants.

Not wherever he wants.  My gosh.  What do you take me for?  He can drive to school and practice and back, as long as I can track him on my phone.  Shoot.  The tracking doesn’t disqualify me for the Parenting Award, does it?