Training Pants

TRAINING PANTS

He drove himself to school today.  I stayed at home…praying.  

Before his voice got low and mumbly and aberrant hairs started appearing like that one really long hair growing under his chin (I swear I will cut this hair off of while he's sleeping) encouragement and celebrations came easily.  Back then we could be honest and gleeful and proclaim victories like toilet training, training wheels off, and the wheels in his mind churning out epiphanies.

Do you remember training pants?  Extra padding for oops moments?  They were insurance against a truly crappy day!  Car insurance doesn't allow for “oops” moments despite the fabled accident forgiveness that is being sold.  There are additional consequences to the original penalty of paying the outrageous amount required for a beginning driver.  Our insurance went up $678 for 6 months and no, this is not a typo!  I guiltily miss training pants and training wheels. Why guilt?  Because he is free, and who am I to hold back a nest- jumper?

Today, the celebration is bottled in a recyclable bottle labeled "fear and lack of parental control” and “Mom, you are embarrassing me!"  He's fledging. Oh Dear God, let the missteps come with inconsequential bruising.  Let the lessons be deep, but spare him of piercing trauma.  I pray, “Bandaids, God, not gauze wads” as if God is a pharmacist who takes orders!

He was excited.  I could tell because he didn't scowl at me and hugged me willingly before he left home, his keys jingling from a lanyard.  On a typical morning he says nothing to me.  I say very little to him to abide by the rules of non-stimulation listed in the manual on how to raise a teen.  What, you didn’t get a manual?   I played my part well offering short sentences and stifled advice, "don't rush, be safe, I love you."  He mumbled "love you" as if he was merely clearing mashed potatoes from his palate and not confessing his allegiance to the woman who bore him and cleaned up all manner of bodily functions for the past 17 years.

I didn't watch the car pull out, because this was a time for faith not sight.  Prayers flowed from the top of my head like some hairy Repunzel cloud swirling around and the words were not eloquent, but "caveman like," "safe boy, yay! free!, help, your will, oh God, training pants, big boy now, wow!"

My baby boy is 17, potty trained, and driving.  My work here is finished! Ha!