"It is, after all, really dangerous! Unsafe, you know?" I looked from the crowd of parents to the field of our collective sons, "I mean, say our boy is the one in one hundred or two hundred who lands wrong and breaks his neck. Or accidentally injures or seriously hurts another kid. Will it have been worth it THEN? Will all the spectacular tackles and spot-on bomber passes and touchdown runs balance out that outcome? Why are we doing this?" There's a pause as we both take in the next play, which was followed by screams and cheers from the crowd, including me -- gotta support the team. My husband shakes his head. Not even thirty seconds later, a player on the opposing team is downed. Both sides take a knee, every player still and respectful as coaches rush on the field to check the injured kid. Eventually, he is able to stand. As he is led off the turf, we all breathe easier and clap our support.
This week, I am faced with a similar scenario. That being the parental choice to allow my child to engage in an activity which could result in serious injury or death to himself or other persons based on the skill and thought he puts into it. Today, in the late hours of a sunny fall Middle Tennessee morning, my son earned his drivers permit after correctly answering 27 out of 30 questions. Test-takers are allowed to miss a total of 6; I say they should score 100% but no one asked me. He came out grinning. Told me he still missed the one he saw on the practice online test last night. The one I tried to explain to him minutes before he entered the test room. The one which says if two people of the same weight drink the same amount of alcohol, the one with more body fat will feel the affects of imbibing first because fat does not absorb alcohol and therefore cannot dilute it the way that a body with more water -- meaning less fat -- can.One would think that having two older children already licensed and wheeling about the streets of our fair city would be preparation enough for the last one. But it's not. Alas, each one presents another level of letting go, of acknowledging the fact that I really have very little control of their well-being and safety, of hoping they listened in some degree or another to the pearls I've cast before their often s-whiny feet!
His exact words as we pulled out of Starbucks with our celebratory drinks and headed to Nashville for a spot of lunch with his dad, "Mom, when I passed that test and she handed me my permit, I felt complete." Okay, little Tom Cruise wanna be. I have humorous visions of my son cradling his laminated likeness in his nervous sweaty palms, crooning to it, "You complete me." At least he had the discernment to declare after his first ten minutes behind the wheel on a main thoroughfare, "You adults make this look easy . . . but it's not!"
After two hours of logged driving time, broken up by errands and stops at the homestead, he'd apparently forgotten how not easy the act of driving is. The sweaty palms abated; the precision stops behind other cars became 'inching forward in anticipation of the light changing' stops; the strict placement of his hands at 10 and 2 morphed more than a few times to 4 and 6. Though I'll say, away from his curious and perfectly formed ears, that he will one day be an excellent driver because he has instinct and a love for manning a wheeled gas-powered passenger vehicle. Doubtless, we'll have our share of debates when I assert my years of practical knowledge and it butts up against his lesser years of knowing it all better than me. I'll remind him constantly of the power he has when he joins traffic. The responsibility. We'll all impress upon him the importance of keeping himself and other drivers safe and alive to drive another day.And as he continues to ask me to tuck him in several nights a week, I'll find reasons to stretch that permit out to its Gumby breaking point. Perfect parallel parking comes to mind. After all, it's not a license. Yet.
Did I mention he wants to be an organ donor?
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