1 Call No Parent Ever Wants

As the parent of three kids who drive, I can tell you there are some calls you never want to get at 1 a.m., including this dire message: “There’s been an accident.”

There are also these dreaded openings:

• “It’s the police — we’ve got your son. He’s been charged with a DUI.”
• “I just hit something or someone.”
• “My car just broke down on the highway.”
• “There’s smoke coming out of the hood.”
• “There’s a creepy car following mine.”
• “Someone stole my car.”
• “I lost the keys.”

I hope not to receive any of these calls. Ever.

I’m on hyper-alert about this issue for good reason. The morning my oldest son got his driver’s license, the Columbia space shuttle disintegrated in flight. I remember watching news of the disaster. There was nothing to see but empty sky. Meanwhile, I kept glancing at my own driveway, where my new driver would soon pull up, flush with a sense of freedom.

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Finally my son came home, proud of his license. He picked up my middle son, who was then 13, and off they went for food. My entire world was driving away from me. Felt like a big red throbbing heart was behind the wheel. I sat and sobbed.

My entire world was driving away from me. Felt like a big red throbbing heart was behind the wheel.

So as I got into the passenger seat of my car recently, I steeled myself and thought: You can do this. You’ve done it twice before – you can do it again.

I looked over at James, youngest of my three sons. He’d just gotten his learner’s permit and would be driving me around town to show off his new skills and status. I knew he was ready — the bigger question was: Was I ready?

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In my mind, I threw a helmet on my head. I put on shoulder pads, leg pads and checked my back pocket — yep, my insurance card was there. As the mom, I was set. But I really wanted to put bubble wrap around my son.

As the mom, I was set. But I really wanted to put bubble wrap around my son.

My car was now rocking like a prom party bus. James had the volume cranked up as he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. I settled in, tightened my seatbelt, and began reciting terse orders. Suddenly I was Mission Control for a NASA flight.

“Check your mirrors, adjust your seat, and put your mind into defensive mode,” I began as he backed out of the driveway. I grabbed the armrest as we peeled down the street.

The turns were wide, the stops lurching. We had an unspoken battle over the radio volume as the breeze from the windows blew our hair back. To calm myself, I began to sing along with a favorite country song. My son joined in. I felt better, especially when he slowed down.

I stole a little look at him as he held the wheel confidently at the 10 and 2 positions. His eyes were shining, his gaze forward. How did this happen? Yesterday this kid had been tucked in a car seat, a stuffed bear in his fingers. Back then he’d been happy to go for a ride with mommy in the car.

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Now he was happy to be behind the wheel on the open road with his mom in the passenger seat.

I knew the ending to this story. Pretty soon, I’d be kicked out and he’d be driving a date down the street.

Just please don’t let me get one of those awful calls in the middle of the night.
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