I have been a mother for sixteen years today. After school I will pick up my son and take him to get his driver’s license. Then we will go to the auto repair shop to pick up Carl, a 2006 beaut we got for him to maneuver. He will drive himself home from there.
And then he’ll drive himself to choir practice. And in the morning he’ll drive himself and his brother to school.
I don’t feel old. I feel as vibrant and relevant as I allow for myself. I can’t say the time has flown by. I mean, these motherhood days have been long and often overwhelming.
I think these milestone birthdays trigger within us our own memories of turning these ages. And how could it be possible that now our own offspring are experiencing these rites of passage? It feels like I am hardly past my own youth, for it still beats within me.
I do remember becoming old enough to operate a motor vehicle. I remember the way I expressed said freedom. I made foolish and shameful choices. I know my son will do the same.
So now, parenthood morphs and changes once again. Now it becomes a game of trust. And a worry that while having a lapse of judgement, my son will be cruising in Carl. I hope that we have taught him to value his life, and those around him, so that the decisions he makes will echo those lessons.
Because if there’s anything I would wish for on this sixteenth anniversary, it would be for many, many more.