I felt like a grown-up when I started my first real job. When I got married. When I had a baby. There were nights when Matt was out of town, and I tucked my baby and preschooler into their beds before settling in my own. On those nights, I looked around our home with a vague sense of surprise. Surprise that I was responsible for seeing two human beings through their day, for feeding them, clothing them, loving them. I felt like a grown-up, yet it was still slightly incredible to me that I was the one in charge.
While I remember a great deal of my own childhood, I don’t remember what it felt like to be three, or seven, or even eleven years old. But I remember what it felt like to be a teenager, and adolescent me is still a significant part of who forty-something me is today.
This is why it is completely surreal to me that I have a teenager. Two. Because that was just me, a few years ago. A few years in my head that are twenty-five in reality.
Experiencing the milestones of adolescence were tough enough the first time. Living through them as a parent is like watching a movie that I can’t pause. Middle school, high school, SAT, college searches – I’m a passenger this time, not a driver.
I’ve been a passenger, literally, for the past nine months, as Gwen sat behind the wheel and learned to drive. I wasn’t ready to begin, but she was.
Last week, Matt took her to the MVA to take her skills test. I waited at home, feeling like I wanted to throw up. Forty-five minutes after her appointment, Matt called me, ready to explode. This is the story he tells me:
Gwen finishes the parking portion of the test, and is ready to head out onto the road. I give her the thumbs up, but she shakes her head. She turns off the car and the MVA guy gets out, and motions for me to come over. The inside of the windshield is streaky, he says, and you need to clean it.
I used my saliva and a handful of Chick Fil-A napkins to clean the glass. Tester guy gets back in, but the spit clean is not up to par. If you don’t have something in the car to clean the windshield with, he says, I’ll have to disqualify the car.
Disqualifying the car means an automatic failure. I motion to Gwen to pop the trunk (she pops the gas tank first, a skill she needs to work on), and by the grace of God I find some wipes in a first-aid kit in the trunk. I scrub the window again, muttering a few choice words not quite under my breath. Jerk Man deems the glass clean enough, and off they go.
She passed. Unlike her mother, my baby passed on the first try. I am relieved and thrilled and terrified. When she went out for her first solo ride, I followed her using the Find My Friends app, refreshing the location like a lunatic to watch her progress. I didn’t monitor her drive home, because I know I can’t do that forever.
I have many friends who have teenage drivers. They worry, I’m sure, but they don’t let it paralyze them. I need to do the same.
I think back to those nights when I felt like a rock star for being completely responsible for two small human beings. I’ve gotten used to being in charge, and now I have to relinquish some of that control. That’s how it should be, but it doesn’t make it easy.
I’m doing it though, because that is what grown-ups do.
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