On Letting Go: The Driving Chapter

Small acts of protection, bigger acts of trust

She just left the house on her longest drive yet. An hour and a half each way, up into the mountains, on a busy Memorial Day.

It was a discussion in our house a few days ago. I never didn’t want her to go. Of course I did. These are their glory days. She’s going with good kids, and the plan is hiking and probably grabbing lunch or dinner. I want them to enjoy the heck out of every minute they have together before high school graduation starts separating them.

I just didn’t want Cora riding in a van full of kids, with a kid driver that far away on a holiday weekend. Thankfully, John felt them same. And Cora at least said she did too.

It doesn’t mean I don’t love these good kids. I do. I’m so grateful she has a super solid coed group of friends. I just didn’t want to up the risk factor.

So, despite the fact that she’s had her license for almost a year, plus plenty of months practicing before that, I was stretching the umbilical cord, as my friend Sue likes to say. She has said it plenty of times this past year with her senior.

I can hear the other moms say it now: “Jen, just get Life360. You’ll feel so much better.”

Would I?

Or would I have more things to worry about?

But truly, I FOMO Life360 sometimes. Only when I think about it. And when I see other moms talking about it. Kind of like a European summer vacation. When everyone is talking about theirs, of course I want one too.

John laid down the law about Life360 years ago. He wanted to go old school and establish trust. Two-way trust.

Fine. Marital compromise. It sounded like a better life than me staring at a screen, stressed out, then running over to him trying to figure out what to do next.

But now that I think about it, he probably didn’t want it because dealing with me over it would be more of a headache than monitoring her.

And when anyone says words like old school or trust, I want all of it.

So there I was at 9 a.m., gassing and washing our car. My car, that she drives. Checking the glove box to make sure everything was there, just in case.

And it wasn’t.

The new insurance card had been sitting on the kitchen island for a few weeks.

At 9:50, I brought the insurance card to the glove box. I even Windexed the water streaks on the driver’s side window that I made from rolling it down after the car wash. I might have taken the passenger floor mat out and shaken off the dirt because I didn’t have quarters for the vacuum.

And yes, as I was doing all these things, maybe even wiping the seats and the dash and the console, I thought, This is ridiculous.

Just because my dad would have done it for me doesn’t mean I should be doing it for her.

But I thought about my dad the whole time I was wiping the rearview mirrors.

My dad loved to clean the windows on his very less-than-average Honda Civic. Later on, he became a delivery driver, and even though I wasn’t in town, I knew he was somewhere slowly washing the windows. Wipers up. Not the lazy way I do it, where I wipe around them and then remember how my dad did it and begrudgingly lift them to get a better clean.

So yeah, maybe I can blame my dad for this weird need to get the car ready for her first long solo drive.

I also might have texted her a to-do list before she left.

Sunscreen. Water. Power bar. Extra shirt.

Half of which she had already done, but she didn’t give me a hard time for checking anyway.

Letting go is hard. It’s really hard.

Is that because I have an only? Probably.

Is it because I’m a half-Chinese tiger mom? Most definitely.

Does it make me want to run away and never come back? Sometimes.

“Thanks for letting me go,” Cora said after I stood beside her while she mapped her route and I waited for a hug.

I wanted to get up from the table and give her a hug goodbye and tell her to have fun because that’s what you do.

Even when it’s scary.

Even when the world feels dangerous.

Even when every cell in your body wants to say, actually, never mind. Stay home forever.

I’m 99% sure that a lot of parents reading this have already graduated from this chapter of parenting. I am a late bloomer in this regard. Just like I made her stay in a tall car booster for way too long because our pediatrician told us to and scared the bejeebers out of us.

But to my credit, I made forward progress this week.

When she was telling us at dinner about the hiking trip, and we came to a family consensus about how she would get there, I extended the conversation with something that felt important.

“Cora, I want you to start telling us where you’re going instead of asking us.”

She didn’t quite follow.

“You’re almost 18. The houses of all your best friends, and all the houses you’ve already been to, are allowed. So are the places you already hang out — In-N-Out, the Village, the mall, all of that. Instead of asking us if you can go, start telling us where you’re going and when you’ll be back.”

I think John was impressed with me. I could tell.

And then I went on to explain to both of them that we needed to transition out of this. That we were maybe even a little behind on it.

But I was ready.

And I needed it too.

Maybe that’s why this feels so big to me.

I don’t have practice letting go of this version of her yet.

This girl who still lets me remind her about sunscreen, but also maps her own route. This girl who still says, “Thanks for letting me go,” but is already learning how to leave.

So I cleaned the windows.

I checked the insurance card.

I reminded her about water and snacks.

I gave her the hug.

And then I let her go.

Not perfectly. Not casually. Not without watching her leave out the window.

But I did.

I wasn’t really cleaning the car.

I was trying to make the world feel safer before I sent my kid out into it.

Maybe that’s what this stage of parenting is. Small acts of protection, followed by bigger acts of trust.

And today, I practiced.

If you’re in this season too, I’d love to have you here.

At Next Chapter, Together, I’m writing through the holding close, the letting go, and the strange little moments that make us realize they’re growing up. And so are we.

And if this one hit home, you can always support my writing with a coffee here.