The 18th reason for not crying during your daughter’s senior year of high school is winter driving. Winter driving is, for anyone born and raised in the Midwest, an unfortunate reality of daily life. No one can avoid the perils and, dare I say, triumphs, of learning to drive in all sorts of weather, not the least of which involves ice, snow, sleet, and wind.
Travel sports season is fully upon us, and last weekend had us tightly scheduled and heading in separate directions—one daughter west to Ames to play in a basketball tournament, one daughter north to Rochester for a volleyball scrimmage, the remaining family to stay home for basketball and volleyball commitments of their own. And, of course, for some of us—obligations for the hobby we are most committed to—laundry.
Friday morning we received a text from Grace’s teammate. ”R. Has influenza. V. Contagious and can’t play this weekend. Cancelling hotel room now.” R is Grace’s best friend and her parents had planned to be her ride and chaperone for the weekend. We had suspected this might happen, and had consequently made hasty alternative arrangements before work. Grace and I to Rochester, Chad and Claire to Ames, Sam to Grandpa’s, littles to choose among the three. It was a feasible plan, for the most part, involving some schedule jockeying but no more than usual. The biggest problem was one that has plagued us for almost 8 weeks now. I still can’t drive.
I can chaperone and provide adult oversight. I can still use my credit card and make decisions. But I can’t walk far or fast, and I can’t drive. I could attend, but Grace would have to do all the driving. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but on the fly, it was feasible. Nothing to cry about.
Except for the snowstorm. Her little brother’s game—which would have entailed only a ten minute drive across town—was cancelled due to weather. And we were contemplating driving 3 hours north and 3 hours west, respectively, to attend youth sporting events. Not only that, our only option was to put our lives in the hands of a seventeen year old driver who has had a single, scant year of practice driving in the snow. It was a bit daunting to say the least. Not crying.
Nevertheless, after studying DOT traffic maps and weather apps, we determined that the directions we were heading were virtually unaffected by the storm that had honestly just barely grazed us. Less than an hour of driving in either direction would take us completely out of the danger zone. If we left in plenty of time and took it easy, it didn’t look bad. Rochester didn’t get a flake of snow. Ames was clear.
So we packed up and headed out, Grace at the wheel. We have repeated this scenario a hundred times in recent years—heading out early on a frosty morning for games and tournaments, with a packed cooler and pillows and blankets for the long, boring drives through stubbly cornfield covered landscapes. The notable exception this time, was that I was riding shotgun and not behind the wheel. It was nothing to cry about. I mean, I like being in charge—literally and figuratively behind the wheel—but accommodations had to be made for the plan to work, and Grace was more than willing to drive. Not crying.
My recovery from my recent surgery has been nothing if not a lesson in humility and surrender. It is nearly impossible to be fully the boss of your own time and circumstances (much less those of anyone else) when you can’t drive. I’ve been slowly, painfully learning patience, resigning my clutching grasp on my way and my how for something a bit looser and more open. It’s not my natural way, and it hasn’t always been pretty. Who am I kidding? It hasn’t ever been pretty.
There was something very metaphoric, though, in turning over the keys to my daughter. She has been driving for several years now, first under the limitations of a school permit, more recently with the full freedom of a driver’s license. She’s been driving to out of town volleyball practices for the better part of a year. This is not new. What IS new, is her driving with me in the passenger seat. Before this surgery, I can’t think of a lot of times when we were together and she drove. It just wasn’t the natural way of it, once we were through the awkward permit years when adult supervision was required. Not crying.
It occurred to me as we drove that getting her full drivers’ license was really the beginning of this transition phase which will end when she leaves for college next fall. Much of modern parenthood, especially from late grade school, takes place behind the wheel. I felt nothing but relief when Grace could finally schlep herself from place to place—it felt like (and was!) a 20% reduction in my after work obligations. We still attended every game and competition—but we were free from practices and meetings and team dinners. Early on, it didn’t occur to me that I might miss those hours in the car. Until they were gone—for good—and precious minutes I used to have with my girl simply disappeared. Not crying.
On the way home this weekend, I had to sit in the back for most of the trip home. After less resting and elevating than I probably should have been doing through the two days, I was in a fair amount of pain and needed to stretch out and put my foot up. I climbed awkwardly into the backseat and settled in. Grace had GPS and her music and the two younger kids were settled in around me beneath blankets. I eventually fell asleep, and when I awoke, I was struck by the odd juxtaposition of the situation. It was like a symbolic passing of the baton. Gradually, and grudgingly, we have allowed her more freedoms and more hours and miles away from us. It is just the natural way of things and not a reason to cry. I did not, for instance, recall a squalling blue eyed baby girl raging from her car seat every time we got in the car. I did not imagine all the miles—the hotels and the volleyball stadiums—that I had shared with this girl over her lifetime. I did not think how, next year, she would have to drive these miles for herself or how, at this crossroads, it will be a now and forever type transaction. We won’t be going back from this handoff. She’ll drive off into her future now and rarely be tucked into my backseat again. Eventually, perhaps, we will come full circle and she’ll drive my ancient self around as my body weakens and ages and we complete the inevitable transition from caretaker to cared for. Not crying.
It was a blissful, terrible moment—having time whizz forward and backward like that as I sat in the far back seat alternately gazing out at snow covered farms and then the back of my daughter’s gleaming head. She drove a bit too fast, but well, and we had no incidents or even close calls. I restrained myself from offering too much advice (what little I did was met with sighs and eyerolls, of course. One exchange ended with my sniping, “How many winters have you driven in? One. How many have I driven in? Thirty. I think I might know a few things“). But for the most part I was quiet and she took the wheel—literally. (I may have prayed a rosary or two to keep my mouth shut and my heart calm, but that’s neither here nor there). After awhile, the kids began some sort of raucous guessing game that I couldn’t hear very well because of the loud music they insisted upon and I tolerated.
We arrived home in the late afternoon, when the winter sun was just sinking over the horizon. Grace uncomplainingly unloaded the car and then headed for the sanctuary of her room. She neither commented on nor likely noticed the symbolic handoff we had just exchanged. Of course I’ll drive again as soon as I can. She’ll sleep in the passenger seat with her headphones and her blanket. We’ll trade back for the rest of this year, and next year, she’ll step fearlessly into the driver’s seat of her life while I watch and wonder at her confidence and courage. She’ll drive away (too fast), and I’ll watch from the backseat, idly dreaming of car seats and road trips, trusting her to get where she needs to go. She’ll learn, as we all do, how to navigate slippery roads and complicated routes. She’ll learn it through miles and hours traveled without me even in the backseat. I’ll be here, and my life will move on and she’ll race forward into a future none of us can yet see.
But this weekend was just a weird road trip. It’s just me recovering from an injury forcing her behind the wheel for a few days. Not everything is a metaphor for her leaving me in a few months. It’s just winter driving. I’m not crying, you’re crying.
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