Learner's License

My 15-year old is learning to drive.  Even as we walked into the DMV to get his learner’s license, I couldn’t imagine sitting in the passenger seat while he piloted my vehicle; my new vehicle, my favorite-car-in-the-whole-wide-world that, even after nine months, boasts bonafide “new car smell”.  Just the thought of it made me all jumpy inside.  So, I didn’t think of it.

I supplied Shane with a Georgia Driver’s Manual a couple of months before his 15^th birthday.  He rifled the pages with his thumb, barely concealing his humor at the thought that he might actually READ the book.  However, after pulling an all-nighter with his best friend who had tested several months before and therefore “knew what he was talking about”, Shane scored a 95 on the exam; a fact of which he apprised me even before flashing his paper license.

Though I hadn’t paid attention as we drove in, driving out I realized this particular branch of the DMV was situated at one end of an otherwise abandoned strip mall, meaning the only cars parked were the ones directly in front of the office.  In the kind of fit of spontaneity I’m known for, I parked the car and motioned for Shane to change places with me.  To his credit, and possibly because it’s not the first time his mother has had some kind of hare-brained notion that required his participation, he jumped out, ran around and slid underneath the wheel as though it were home.

I took the liberty of installing a few virtual stop signs along our route, just to give him practice, as we took several turns around the parking lot.  Twice, a car piloted by a “real” driver took advantage of the landlord’s misfortune, by cutting across the painted lines on its way in or out.  We both froze.  Fortunately, Shane froze on the brake.  I took this as a good sign.

We’ve been out several times since then.  He’s still a little heavy on the gas when first starting out and corners are a bit tricky, but we did manage to traverse a rather scary intersection without incident on the way to the grocery and back.  We took a drive with purpose.  I think that’s a big step.

The guilt didn’t start until Monday.  

It was a nagging thing.  It kind of pulled at me, demanding attention.  At stray times, throughout the day, Trey’s face swam into view along with an incident; a time when I felt inadequate, a situation I felt I’d mishandled.  I managed to quash them usually.  I ran the tape inside my head; the one that says “This is normal.  Everyone does this.  Don’t let it get you down.”.  If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard THAT song…

But he kept coming.  I remembered the time his father called him a “sissy”, the way he clutched at my leg through my skirt, and the feeling of desperation in knowing what a pitiful shield I made using only my hands.   There were rides to school…rides necessitated by Trey’s bad behavior at the bus stop…that seemingly provided fertilizer for arguments he saved for just this opportunity.  Eventually, I remembered he couldn’t argue if I didn’t participate.  Sometimes, then, we talked.

There were visits with counselors, arguments with his step-dad, and a notebook filled with completed homework he’d never turned in.

These reels played alternately, randomly, for two days before I recognized the catalyst.  

I didn’t teach Trey to drive.

The realization startled me at first.  How could that be?  Who could have taught him?  How does such an important phase in a child’s life go unnoticed, unaccompanied by a parent…especially when there’s only one?

That afternoon, I received an email from a friend who always seems to know “when”.  She reminded me she’d always listen, and I began writing.  About halfway through, the missing pieces fell into place until the whole messy picture became clear and a new mantra began to play inside my head.  “You were not a bad Mom.  You were not a bad Mom.  You were not a bad Mom.”

This afternoon, I received a note from Trey’s boss’s wife, Amy.  Over the years, she’d grown very fond of him.

“The guys are here today working on Bo's in ground trampoline. While they were eating lunch, Bo walked up to Mike and so sweetly asked, "Where's Trey?" Out of the mouths of babes... YOU are NOT forgotten, our precious friend!!”

And, I’m reminded it’s not just me.  This isn’t the first time that I’ve discovered, when I’m missing Trey more than usual, I’m not the only one.  That knowledge doesn’t make me miss him any less.  As a matter of fact, reading Amy’s note took me to a place I haven’t been in weeks.  What it does do, though, is remind me he is loved, as am I.

Today, I am thankful for blessings who give you room to grow.

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