Parking Space 604

I open the envelope and gently pull out parking sticker 604. My mind races and my heartbeat quickens. That space is in the senior lot—the lot that is designated for the “old” kids, the kids who are in their last year of high school, are applying to colleges, getting to close to graduation, and then they are…leaving. Parking space 604 is for someone else’s daughter, not mine. Because my daughter couldn’t be that old, she couldn’t be getting ready to leave. They must have sent us the wrong parking sticker. But they didn’t. It was hers. And all that applies to those older kids, now apply to her. But what does that make me? Kind of a mess. She was gone most of the summer. She has been gone for a portion of the summer since she was eight when she let me know that she didn’t want to go to a camp that only had a one-week session for her age group, she wanted to go to one that had a two-week session. “I don’t care if I don’t know anyone there, mom. I’m fine with that.” So she went, and she kept going, and going. And now, she is plotting yet another, more permanent exit strategy. Out of my house, out of her room, out from her spot at the dinner table, out from parking spot 604…and she is already starting to leave a big, huge, gaping hole in my heart.

We visit colleges. She loves them all! Each one is her favorite. Each one would work for her escape plan. She is not afraid. She craves adventure, new experiences, new people and new surroundings. And yet I see her looking at her 8-year-old sister more lovingly lately, and studying her, as if she is realizing that Jo will grow up without her big sister living in the house, and that they will miss each other—a lot. She hugs her little sister for a little longer. She tells her how much she loves her. I even heard her whispering to her, “You have to tell mom and dad to get you an iphone so we can face-time.” Jo tells her that she will. And her brothers, she is more affectionate with them too, and is much more accepting of the things they do that used to send her ranting about how completely annoying they both are. She knows she will soon be communicating with them from afar. She understands that things will be different.

Sometimes I feel “stuff” welling up inside of me and I’m not sure what it is. Sometimes I cry at the end of a yoga class when we are resting silently on our mats with our eyes closed and I have the chance to let go of all that I am trying desperately to hold onto.  I realize that the stuff that I am so carefully guarding within my chest cavity is the pain, sadness and fear that arises (but needs to be contained) when I try to wrap my brain and my heart around the fact that my oldest child, my first born, my oldest daughter will soon leave the nest that I have spent 18 years trying to make comfortable, warm and safe for her. She was the guinea pig. She turned me into a mom and provided me with my first stab at being a parent. In so many ways, she has been my teacher. And now, even though they say, you are not supposed to be friends with your child, she is my friend. Yes, I am still her mom, I set the limits, the expectations and do all that a good parent is supposed to do, but I can’t help that I really, really like her; that I find her to be one of the funniest people I know; that I love going into her room at night, flopping down on her bed and talking with her and listening to her—about anything. I like that she is smart and interesting and fun to be around. I like that she is honest, in a no b.s. kind of way, like when she tells me that my hair looks crazy or it’s time to color the grays, or that my shoes are not right for my outfit.  She tells me that I take too long to edit her papers and that I am taking way too long to write my book. But she also cheers me on and is supportive of my dreams. She is real, she is kind, she is passionate—the best kind of friend any person would want; how could she NOT be my friend?

Her exit strategy is working. She is going to be accepted to some of the colleges she applied to and she will pick one, and then...no matter how many tears I shed, she is going to hit the road. Her parking spot in the senior lot will be taken over next year by another child whose mom cannot quite place where the 18 years have gone. And I will move through this transition…somehow, just like all the courageous moms who have raised wonderful children and then set them free. And for the time being I will try and rejoice that her parking sticker says 604; that she is still parking in the big kid lot at the school my other kids attend. I will continue to smile and exhale when I hear her car pull into our driveway and when she barrels in through the door usually yelling something that I don’t understand.

Her presence is big in our house and in my heart and I intend to fully cherish it, even after her “operation exit home” is successful.

Look Mom! No More Training Wheels!

For the past 16 years, I have driven this kid around like a chauffeur. Basketball, tennis, baseball, school, friends’ houses, camps…a regular taxi service I was. And I am certain that I complained about it…just a few times. But today that would all change. The reality of the transition that was about to occur hit me when I got out of my car and the driver's license examiner got in and said, "We will be back in 15 minutes." "Okay, I will be here," I responded in a faint voice. I walked away and felt a surge of emotions: fear, disbelief, nostalgia all mixed up with excitement and anticipation. I stood frozen and stared at my car with my son and the tester inside, only to have my trance interrupted by my son bounding out of the car mumbling expletives, “Mom, you took the car keys!” “Oh sorry, honey,” I said as I fumbled through my purse and quickly handed them over. I resumed my trance-like state, leaning against the outside of the driver’s license office building wanting time to stand still for just a moment. Please, just for a moment, so I can process this, wrap my brain around the idea of my son being able to drive...legally...by himself. But my phone rang and it was my husband, who was out of town, wanting a play-by-play of our son’s driver’s test.  Well, the first play I  reported was our son managing to maneuver the car directly over a curb as he pulled out of his parking spot and made a right hand turn. I wondered if that did him in. But I knew he wanted this; he wanted this badly, and he had worked hard and practiced and I believed that he would find a way to turn a rough start into an acceptable outcome.

I saw a girl get out of a car holding a piece of paper and walking toward her dad. She was beaming. “Congratulations,” I said as she walked passed me. She smiled and thanked me and proceeded into the building to fill out paperwork with her dad. I wondered about my son's fate. After 10 long minutes and not much to report to my husband, I saw my son pull the car into a parking spot. I saw him step out of the car holding a similar looking piece of paper. He had a grin on his face and immediately gave me a thumbs up. A knot formed in my throat and I tried not to let the tears well up in my eyes as I got the words, "he passed" out to my husband.

A license to drive is a right of passage, a milestone, a part of the natural progression of our children’s development and a big step toward their autonomy. It is something to celebrate.  But at the moment when he emerged from my car with the same "I did it" smile that he has given me so many times over his life, I realized that my time with my son just took a huge hit. He will no longer be forced to spend those minutes or hours in the car with me transporting him to where he needs to be. He can get there without me. Should I rejoice in this? Sure. But now that I can feel this time slip away, I clearly see how precious it was.

On the way home, I told him that I would miss the countless hours we had together in the car, heading to and from his games, practices and social events. I would miss the talking and the not talking…just being in the confined space of my car with him.  He was quiet, still reveling in the glory of his accomplishment. I wondered if he would miss that time we had together. Maybe somewhere in the distant future he would remember and be grateful for those times, but for the present moment, I got a very strong sense from him that he couldn't wait to be free!

So, on those days when you have spent more hours turning your steering wheel than you have doing anything else, remember that your calling as a chauffeur is only temporary. Try to cherish some of on-the-road time you have with your children.  And definitely buy yourself an awesome chauffeur’s hat!

Have You Ever Chased a Bus on the Highway? A Crazy Parenting Moment

(Flickr, sidknee23)

It was my 10-year-old son’s first day of ski school on a cold, blustery day in Minnesota.  I wasn’t sure if I was going to send him that day because they were headed to a ski hill that was about an hour away, and we were scheduled to get a bunch of snow so I was worried about the drive home. But after finding out that a few of his buddies were going, my son decided that he really wanted to go. So, we hurriedly layered him up, packed his ski bag, threw together a quick brown bag lunch, and headed out to catch the bus.

Pulling into the designated pick-up spot—a parking lot at a nearby shopping mall—I saw no sign of the bus nor any other cars waiting for a bus. I frantically called another mom who told me that her husband had taken their son and that she thought the bus was on the west side of the mall. I was on the east side. It was 8:01 a.m. The bus was scheduled to depart promptly at 8:00.  I drove like a madwoman to the other side of the mall and caught sight of a school bus pulling a trailer behind it (presumably containing ski equipment) exiting the mall parking lot and heading toward the freeway. “SHHHIIITTTT!!!!!” I said in my very outside, non-mommy voice. “Mom,” my son whispered. “Did I miss the bus?”  “NO,” I retorted as I screeched out of the parking lot, hell-bent on catching that bus.

“Mom,” said my sweet son, who could sense that I was about to do something crazy, “It’s okay, we can just go home.” “No honey, you are going skiing today,"I said. "You want to go with your friends, we've paid for it, and you are going.” “Are you going to drive me all the way to the ski hill,” he asked tentatively. “Nope, you are taking the bus there,” I said trying to not let him know that my heart was just about to jump outside of my body as I prepared myself for the bus chase. “But, mom….” “Honey, I got this, just sit tight.” And we were off! I raced out of the parking lot and got onto the highway on-ramp. The bus was in sight. Trying not to kill my son and myself, I accelerated a lot but resisted pushing the pedal completely to the metal.  I maneuvered my car into the lane directly to the left of the bus. My son sat motionless and speechless with the oh-no-she-is-not-possibly-doing-what-I-think-she-might-be-doing look on his face.

There was no way that I was going to drive an hour and a half each way to get this kid to ski school today, but there was also no way that he was not going to go. One small problem, what to do about the bus that I needed to get my kid on but was traveling at 55 miles an hour on the freeway?  As I cozied up right along side the bus, I had a direct view of the bus driver.  I honked. I honked again. And a third time. She finally glanced over and I caught her eyes. She looked at me with a puzzled look as I pointed frantically to my son in the back seat. She looked at me again with the same perplexed look. I motioned for her to pull over with my right hand. She looked at me in a different way, a way that said, “Are you out of your frick’n mind?” I nodded and mouthed the word, “Please?”

Next thing I knew, the bus was exiting the highway. I quickly followed suit and pulled up behind the bus where it was slowing to a stop on the right hand shoulder of a frontage road.  “Mom,” squeaked my son from the back seat, “I can’t get on that bus. This is the most embarrassing thing ever!”  “Oh, but you can, honey. I’m sure your buddies are thinking how cool it is that the bus pulled over for you!” He slowly got out of my car with a terrified look on his face. Quickly grabbing my son's ski stuff from the trunk, my son and I approached the bus driver. “M’am, that was not very safe,” she said to me with an agitated . “I know but I can’t thank you enough for stopping,” I said quickly so she wouldn't change her mind, as I gently pushed my mortifed son forward so he would climb the stairs to the bus. Briskly walking back to my car, I saw his buddies stand up to greet him and give him high-fives.

It took me several hours and countless deep breaths before I could even tell this story to my husband who just shook his head in disbelief.  And it took me more that a year to write it down. 

The absolutely insane, unimaginable, outlandish things we do for our kids...