This week, after a month's wait and a frantic back and forth to the repair shop to get a copy of an inspection report, we finally got my parent's car registered in New Home with new license plates. I was taking the plates out to screw them on as The Ravishing Mrs. TB and the household ensemble rolled up. "Here they are" I said, most directly to Nighean Dhonn, the youngest. "You can take it to school and get your parking permit."
The Ravishing Mrs. TB looked a little sad at that. "I will miss driving you to school a bit".
As she said this, I had one of those moments, the moments I keep capturing only after the fact that they have happened: the quiet turns in the road.
By my calculation (as I slowly screwed the plates onto the car), we have been transporting children to school for over twenty years. Originally it was not every day of course: first periodic morning classes, then a Pre-K class, and then finally school every week day. As the children continued to arrive, we added on trips and times, sometimes to different locations until finally we managed to get them all at the same place (only for a few years as it turned out, as then they slowly started passing into high school).
My experience growing up was completely different of course: we attended a small public school and high school and rode the bus. In my early years my mother worked at the same school I did and I assume, although I do not clearly remember, that we rode with her; by fourth grade we walked down to the end of the road and waited with all the other kids on our street, a practice which continued all the way through the beginning of my junior year (and the appearance of the coveted driver's license). But we made a conscious choice to enroll our children in private Christian school and thus, we drove up to the point in high school that their own coveted driver's licenses appeared and transportation became available.
The Ravishing Mrs. TB and I swapped off driving responsibilities as the location of work and school changed. For many years she did it until we moved to New Home, when after some time and her securing of her current job, it was more convenient for me to drop them off and her to pick them up. This happened as well in high school for all of them - right up to 2020, when I no longer went and The Ravishing Mrs. TB did.
And now, in the simple act of screwing on license plates, that time has passed.
I cannot specifically recall a discussion or conversation from those years of driving, partially because my memory has a thousand things packed into it and partially because I tend not to talk when I drive. The Ravishing Mrs. TB was far better at it of course, and used the time to download their days and what happened and perhaps any other tidbits she could extract.
It is a bit of an inconvenience of course, as parking lot efficiencies have not made their way to schools in large numbers yet and the having to leave and be there at a certain time always put some level of fetters on what could be going on in the morning and afternoon. The humdrum existence of negotiating the car lines, wishing them a good day or asking how their day went, and then driving on.
All that, now, is largely history.
This was going to happen of course; it was always going to happen. And in some senses I cannot say I not pleased by it, both for the freedom it represents to a parent as well as the simple fact that, as with a child getting a driver's license, the convenience of having them do a driving chore instead of you is immeasurable. At the same time, I was struck by the moment which was entailed in those license plates: before they drove up at home, things were one way. As I screwed them in, things were different.
There is a quiet sense of mourning, I suppose, in the passage of such things. As some genius has said, One day you and friends went outside to play, not realizing that it was the last time you were ever going to do that. It is exactly like that: the sudden realization that a thing that had been a practice and habit for years was only ever a transient thing, more like a butterfly than solid stone.
And like a butterfly, one notices its liftoff not by the loss of pressure on one's arm but only in sudden flash of movement as it flies away.
"The sudden flash of movement as it flies away..." How insightful...
ReplyDeleteI remember when my wife went into labor with our first.. She said, "Stop, and look back at the house.... it will never be the same again." I didn't know what to think about that then. It was new to me to notice changes in state like that. I'm still not good at it. My head tends to plow forward like an ice breaker. I rarely note the path left behind, unless I hit the rocks and shoals and need to reorient.
Saying "see you in a week, hopefully all the parts will be in and I'll finish the equipment room" were exactly what I planned on, but not what happened at all. Almost seven months ago....
I'm going to borrow your last line for an email I need to send to my customers...
STxAR, by all means steal away!
DeleteI can remember moments like that: when the second child was about to be born, it was readily apparent enough that I remember sitting in the family room that night, thinking that this was the last night of a single child. But that used to be quite rare. I am trying to learn to be more conscious of such things.
Some things are more poignant of course -I have the last recording of my father calling me saved on my voice mail. I was saving them anyway of course, but realizing that this represents the last time my father could use the phone in this way - or I could remotely talk to him as I used to - makes me melancholy. But in reality, all of our moments are like that - just as you note. We say "See you in a week", but we have no actual ability to guarantee that beyond a sort of happy belief that things will go on as they ever have.
That last sentence is profound!
ReplyDeleteDefinitely one of those milestones in the life of raising children. Mine rode the bus (and hated it), but the middle child was able to get a hardship permit at 14 for medical reasons. It changed her life (and her younger brother's) for the better. Mine, too, I guess... though it certainly brought on a few more worries on my part.
Thanks Kelly.
DeleteI was even more of an introvert than I am now, so the bus for me was hard. Although somewhat amusingly, even as I type this I can picture the route we took to my grammar school every day.
That last sentence brought me to tears.
ReplyDeleteHopefully not in a bad way Tewshooz. But in another way, such things should bring me to tears more.
DeleteAnother beautiful post. I smiled remembering that bitterweet/anxious moment when youngest son drove off to a class the first time after he got his license. I smiled at the clever way you have with words - at that poignant last line. I also smiled at you calling your missus "The Ravishing Mrs. TB". :) Me thinks when the last child finally drives off to his/her own place things will be just fine in TB land.
ReplyDeleteAgain, thank you Becki. My first day driving was somewhat more anxious to my father when, in full view of him watching me in the kitchen, I slowly backed out and pulled the porch post off the concrete 4 inches or so. I am sure that "bittersweet" would not been his choice of words.
DeleteThe nom de guerre for my wife actually is borrowed in concept from a radio host I used to listen to, who used the name "The Fetching Mrs. X" to refer to his wife. I liked the concept so much I borrowed it.
I feel this one TB. I am going on year 15 of driving duties and still have another 9 due to the wide spacing between kids. Earlier on though, they rode the bus and did so up until the pandemic started. But even then I knew the writing was on the wall for the oldest one was in enough activities that I was having to call off the bus a few days a week and just took the kids myself. That has brought a dilemma back into my life. What will I do when the pandemic ends to the point where it is safe to be close together on enclosed buses with poor ventilation? I have kind of grown fond of our relaxed mornings since I control the departure time. Even if the oldest one rode the bus in the mornings, with her schedule after school, these two months in the heart of winter are the only ones in which she would ride it back home after school.
ReplyDeleteRight now I'm inclined to just keep doing what we have been doing these last couple years. After two and a half more years, I will just be down to one in school anyway and that relieves the pressure somewhat.
Ed, I will say that on the whole, I think that driving was a good option for us. The Ravishing Mrs. TB really looked at it as an opportunity to follow up and communicate and even I - as generally uncommunicative as I often was - often got to catch parts of conversations I would not otherwise have heard. And perhaps once in a while, even got to import some wisdom which they will never admit came from their father, but they do practice.
DeleteI'll join the others in admiration for your last sentence. I think of myself as a pretty decent writer, i.e. I can put words together to form a cogent thought, but simile like that eludes me. Also, you have pointed out one of the many paradoxes of parenthood. We want them to grow up, but we don't. Even now as I type this, I'm sitting in a quiet house with my wife, thinking back to the days it was filled with delightful noise. And how many times did I say, "quiet down!"?
ReplyDeleteThanks Bob. My initial reaction is "Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while", but I have always lectured my children and my direct reports to accept compliments as sincere and say "Thank you".
DeleteI remember when our oldest was going away. My wife was much more upset by the change than I was. In my world, we raised them to be independent adults and go out on their own, so when they went, we should not be surprised.
But I do understand the part about "not wanting them to grow up". There is something about a child's innocence and view of the world that is so refreshing and tender and innocent that the world always seems to wither by its touch. I wish I understood more of Christ's statement "to be in the world, but not of the world" as I think part of the secret lies there.