Drive Bye

"Wait your turn," I remind my teenage son as we roll through a stop sign.  I try to keep my voice neutral, after all, he is still learning.  He is fifteen years old, and he has his driver's permit.  We wait as the choreography continues, as each car crosses.  I sneak a peek at my son's profile which seems to change every day.

Except for occasionally dragging his brother's bike out of the garage with the side view mirror, my son has been a good driver.  He has a great sense of direction, and he is remarkably calm.  He has been chauffeuring me around a lot these past few months, and aside from my sweaty palms and pounding heart, I like it.

I like the two of us sitting together side by side.  No radio, just us talking.  We don't look at each other; we keep our eyes on the road.  In this small setting, he tells me things.  Without the distractions of our household, I listen.  I try to take it all in, to remember these moments like I do his first steps.  We are on the edge of a seismic shift in our relationship.  It does not escape me that my son is in the driver's seat.

I try to be accepting of what my son wants to tell me.  In return, I give him advice without encountering too much resistance.  I find myself repeating things I haven't said in a long time.  They are the words I used when he was turning from a baby to a boy.  They work just as well as he turns from a boy to a man.

"Look both ways," I say as I encourage my son to make a left turn.  Years ago, we approached a busy street and the young boy in front of us ran out without looking.  A red van made a sickening screech, but stopped in time.

Neighbors ran over to see if he was okay.  In the commotion, no one else noticed that the van still had not moved.  The driver was hunched over her steering wheel, sobbing.

Ten year later, as we drive down the same street, I remind my son of this cautionary tale.  He knows that little boys must watch out for cars.  Now he must learn that drivers must watch out for little boys.  Seemingly in the time it takes to travel these few blocks, he has been transformed.  It's too fast.  I instinctively slam my foot on the floor while sitting in the passenger's seat, yet by now I know that I am unable to slow down the car.

Sometimes I think that the whole point of his childhood, from the moment he left my body, has been nothing more than a lesson for me in how to let him go.  This journey he has taken, out of my life and into his own, has been like watching my own heart walking away from me, with nothing to protect it.  "Be careful," I say each time he leaves the house.  This is my mantra.  This is my prayer.  This is what it is to be a mother.

I treasure my few remaining good nights sleep until he gets his driver's license.  Then, left behind, all I'll be able to do is to stand by the door and wave, hoping he will remember all my instructions.  Look both ways.  Wait your turn.  Be careful.  Feeling a familiar ache, I will watch my heart drive away with nothing but a seatbelt.