After years of being a critical component of my daughter Tory’s life, soon I will be pretty much superfluous. Maybe that’s a bit of an overstatement, but coming from me – the Mom who drives her daughter thousands and thousands of miles in a year – it feels accurate. Tory is a junior in high school and she’ll be getting her “full” driver’s license in a couple of weeks. She “knows” she’s going to pass the on-the-road test and I’m sure she will. Tory is so ready to hop in Sunny, her beloved VW Bug, and drive herself into a new world: You know, the “real world” of “freedom,” “fun” and “responsibility.”
Do I think she’s ready?
The bigger question is Am I ready?
I actually don’t know what I’m going to do when Tory grabs her keys, hops in Sunny and backs down the driveway those first times. Will I run after her, hoping she’ll take me with her? Will I sit in a dark room and sob because my daughter left me home?
My Mom would probably tell me to suck it up; she’d say that if I did my job right my kids would grow up and leave and I need to deal with it, but I’m not going to. Suck it up, I mean. I’m going to take a good look at my feelings. Acknowledge them.
I won’t miss the actual driving, even though my Audi A5 is the coolest car I’ve every driven. Sunny? Not so much.
I will miss the face time with my daughter. I look forward to picking up Tory from wherever she’s been and hearing her unedited, unrehearsed, stream-of-consciousness yak about her day, her classes, her life and what she thinks about it all. I love talking with her even when we disagree. Tory’s opinionated and speaks her truths, but she’s also a good listener.
When will I get this kind of one-on-one yak time with her once she’s driving herself all over the place? Likely never, right?
Okay folks, it looks like we’re turning a significant page in our Life Book* here.
* Idea borrowed from the book Saving CeeCee Honeycutt by Beth Hoffman.