My son is a good driver. Honest! I'm not just saying that to make him feel good; he doesn't read my blog so I can write whatever I want. But the truth is, he is a good driver. He pays attention, he follows the speed limit, he is as cautious as any mother of an almost 16 year old driver could desire.
That doesn't mean I am not sitting in the front seat white knuckled. Because I so am.
Our console between the front seats has a little flip up lid that is never fully closed. My fingers slide into that crack effortlessly and there they grip with intensity. I am not grabbing for the arm rest or the hand hold on the ceiling. My fingers just get tighter on the sharpish lip.
Until I have a groove worn into my finger tips.
Now, this I gladly accept. The bite of the hard plastic as I cling to it helps me stay focused and calm. My son does not need me flailing my arms around with spastic nervousness. I like to think he doesn't know how tightly I hold on; I'd like to think he believes that I am just sitting at his side, a little tense, but over all not doing too bad.
I'd like to think that, but I'm sure he knows the truth. I do leave the car with an imprint of the console lid on my finger tips. That's not the sign of a totally cool, calm, hip cat.
But it is the sign of a mother letting go of her son a little at a time.
I've never been more proud of him....or myself.