I have a friend whose 16-year-old daughter recently got her driver’s license, and she is thrilled.
“She can go to the store now when we need milk! She can drive herself to and from school! It’s life-changing!”
I have another friend whose 16-year-old daughter recently got her driver’s license, and she is terrified.
“I have Life360 on her phone, and I track her every time she leaves. It’s the only way I can stay sane. This has been life-changing!”
I love them both. I respect them both. I think they’re both terrific, loving parents.
But I’m not anything like either of them.
My 16-year-old daughter recently got her driver’s license, and I am not sending her on errands because I’m way too scared. My 16-year-old daughter recently got her driver’s license, and I am not tracking her because that’s just not my scene. (No judgment for those who do that sort of thing! Whatever works for you! But it’s not something we want to do as a family.)
I’m thrilled. And I’m terrified.
When she was about 7, I started letting her walk around the neighborhood alone. I was anxious the whole time, but I felt like it was important for her to start gaining confidence and independence. I still remember sitting on the porch, biting my cuticles because I’d run out of fingernails, just waiting to see her round the corner. I was sure she’d somehow meet a crazy murderer in the five minutes she was out of my sight – but as soon as I saw her, I tried to act calm, like I knew all along she could do it.
When she was 9, I started letting her ride her bike to a friend’s house. (Wearing a helmet!) I was a nervous wreck until she called me to say that she was there safely, but I tried hard to make sure she couldn’t hear it in my voice.
I didn’t necessarily want her to know how scary the world could be.
Now she is 16, and she knows – on some level – that the world is scary, but she also doesn’t think anything can happen to her. That’s a blessing and a curse.
When she drove off to her boyfriend’s house on Friday night, I did admittedly hyperventilate a little bit. My knees were weak. My stomach was a mess. And I sat on the porch, biting my cuticles because I’d run out of fingernails, just waiting to see her pull into the driveway. But she came home safely, and I tried to act nonchalant, like I’d known all along that she’d be fine. (I think she was on to me, though, when I basically tackled her with a hug as she walked up the front steps.)
Last night, she told me that she had an AP Pysch project due but that she was just going to run to Michael’s and get all of the supplies herself.
After way too many last-minute Michael’s runs, this was welcome news. I was thrilled. And I was terrified.
I’m not sure those two intermingled feelings will ever go away entirely. I’m pretty sure, actually, that that’s exactly what parenthood is.
