I’ve officially reached that stage of parenting where a toddler throwing a tantrum in the middle of Target makes me want to cry. Because that little voice is just so cute! I’ll smile compassionately at the depleted mom as I pass by her raging, snot filled child, desperate to communicate through my dewy eyes the one thing that no parent ever wants to hear: you’re gonna miss this one day! I don’t say it of course. I’m not a monster. I just want to prepare her for the day when that same terrorist toddler becomes a hormone infested teenager that calls her Bruh, and wouldn’t be caught dead with her in Target and wants to do things like get swoll and make protein shakes and get a driver’s license.
A driver’s license. How did I get to this part of parenting where my son needs a driver’s license? I am not prepared for this, but I suppose my son probably should be so recently I reluctantly found myself as a passenger in my own car, with apparent genius first time driver at the wheel; teenage hormones raging as we crawled up and down the aisles of a vacant parking lot, me being told to chill as he played Frogger with parking lot pillars that suddenly seemed soclose; my sweaty hand gripping the side handle of the door as if it was the last bottle of rosé on Earth; my face desperately trying to mask panic as I reminded myself that I was the adult here; I needed to impart wisdom, however unwanted, and remain calm. Patient. Chill.
At one point he clicked the blinker to make a right turn, but like a renegade, went left. I opened my mouth to highlight this error, but, seasoned teenage mom that I am, recognized how futile that would be so instead I just suggested to him that maybe instead of this driving lesson, he could hop in the backseat and I’ll sing Wheels on the Bus as many times as he wants, all the parts of the bus and if he’s a really good boy we can drive through McDonald’s on the way home and get ice cream. He looked at me and smirked a smile, as if I wasn’t being completely serious and I smiled back, my eyes lingering a little too long, searching for that song starved little boy hiding inside this man child next to me. But before I even had adequate time to tear up:
DUDE PILLAR!
God, mom, please chill! You’re being so annoying, bruh!
Oh, I’m annoying?? I’m annoying? You wanna know what was annoying? That one time you didn’t poop for seven straight days when you were three years old and we couldn’t leave the house, held hostage by bowels. THAT was annoying. THAT was so not chill, bruh.
But I didn’t say this. Because I’m the adult. The calm, patient adult. I just shove all my feelings down like a respectable mother does and then suggested to my son that we should probably practice parking for a few minutes and he should probably pick a spot super far away from any pillars of any kind. He pulled into a spot and before he could begin to back out, we both noticed another car breezily entering the parking lot. The empty parking lot. The parking lot we came to specifically so we could endanger only the lives of ourselves and who do these people think they are entering public property when so clearly a mother’s life is flashing before her eyes?
Oh shit, my son spurted, our brains finally connecting on the same vibration. His panicked eyes glanced over at me and I felt my rightful position of power taking hold once again.
Put the car in park, I directed, authority dripping. We’ll just sit here and wait for them to stop driving. We sat in silence and watched as the enemy vehicle circled before finally slipping into a parking spot and two teenage girls emerged, giggling and smiling and acting like they’ve almost never hit a parking lot pillar of any kind and I stared, amazed. They can’t even be a year older than my son and yet here they are, just driving around by themselves, not a care in the world, no parent to be found. Is that my future?
I distinctly remember the first time I drove alone as a teenager. I was heading to work, ten minutes away, my mom’s Grand Marquis my vessel. She stood in the driveway, doing her best impression of not looking concerned, and it wasn’t until I pulled the door shut and saw her standing there in front of me, not here beside me, that I got a little nervous. Nobody was there to guide me, protect me, nudge me. It was just…me. I gave her my best impression of not looking concerned and a shaky little wave and off I went. Only now can I even imagine the lump residing in her throat as she watched me back out of the long driveway, disappear around the corner and wait for the phone call from my workplace signaling a safe journey.
Parenting is terrifying. They should really make that more clear.
After a few more minutes of arguing about which way to turn the steering wheel and a quick silent prayer to Our Father, who art in heaven, we decided to be done for the day. I found myself back in the driver’s seat and never had I ever been more aware of setting a good example in my entire life. I miraculously morphed into the most law abiding, cautious, patient driver the universe had ever known, not once having ever suggested that someone might be a fucking idiot and should get the hell out of my way as I speed up to be that last car hitting the left turn arrow from Manhattan Beach Blvd onto Sepulveda. TARGET WAITS FOR NO ONE PEOPLE. I made a quick mental note to stop broadcasting personal opinions of complete strangers while driving and also maybe ixnay of the uckfay.
We pulled up to a stoplight; my son engrossed in sports on his phone, me engrossed with resisting all urges to pick up my phone at this 7 minute red light, reminding myself that I am now the world’s safest driver. As cars fly by, I shake my head at how unnecessarily fast they’re going. Teenagers whizz by on overpopulated e-bikes, their exposed skulls beckoning me to yell out my window WHERE ARE YOUR HELMETS, YOUNG PEOPLE? And pedestrians! Just crossing the street, whenever they feel like it, heads down, eyes on Instagram, not at all concerned with oncoming traffic. Driving is not safe.
You should never drive, son, I decide. Yeah. I like that. That…feels safer. No driving. Ever.
Huh? he glanced up from his phone.
Nothing, I say.
We sit some more, the whoosh of the cars hypnotizing as my over active imagination grips my conscience and my heart begins to pound between my ears as each and every horrible thing that could happen to my son while driving flashes before my eyes. What if someone hits him? What if he hits someone else? What if he is hurt? What if he is broken? Alone? Scared? What if he is gone? Where was I? Why wasn’t I there? Why wasn’t it me? I am the protector. I am the guardian. I keep you safe. What if I can’t keep you safe? What if? What if?
The light flickers green and I blink my eyes back to reality, my foot mechanically moving from one pedal to the other. So silly, I chastise myself and shake away the imagined nightmares. So silly. He’s right here with you. He’s right next to me. He’ll be safe. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.
It’s what I have to believe because I know he has to drive. I know he has to leave me and live his life outside of me. That’s all part of this terrifying job of parenting. Give them wings and all that shit. You sprouted this, mama. Now you gotta let em go. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s so hard. I want you to watch you fly, kid. I just…didn’t think it would happen so fast.
A few days after this first driving lesson together, I picked my son up from football practice. He hopped in my jeep and he’s chatty. He always chatty after practice. I smiled as I listened to him, relishing in his animated warmth that can disappear at any second. I think of that mom in Target with her tantrum throwing toddler. Wasn’t that just me? I think of her and I just want to tell her what every parent does want to hear: you have so much to look forward to.
I pull over to the curb.
What are you doing, he asks?
You wanna drive home?
Okay, he says.
We swap spots. We buckle up. He looks over at me and smiles. He is safe with me now. He is here with me now. He is next to me now.
Ready, bruh?
Ready, bruh.
