Motherhood is a strange thing. One minute you’re the center of your child’s universe, and the next you’ve ruined their day by committing the crime of attempting to keep them safe. The long sighs, eye rolls, and “I just wish you trusted me” will never cease to remind you of how you’re making a difference in the life of a teenager who has reached the illustrious age of knowing everything.
This phenomenon wears off in a few years. I’m still waiting to know everything again. I can’t wait!
We’re a few weeks into spring here in New England, so naturally this weekend we’re having a snow/ice weather event. I refused to put my winter coat on for most of the day when I had to go outside, just on principle because I had already put it away in the closet for next winter. (This is an example of not knowing everything, like how to have common sense). My youngest son has had his license for a few months, and I’ve let him borrow my car a few times to go to friends’ houses. He picked this icy day to ask to borrow the car again, and actually managed to look surprised when I said no and that I would drive him.
“But why? It’s only raining right now.”
I would like to add that this was right after I told this darling child that I had canceled my plans with a friend because of the ice and sleet that is predicted into the afternoon and evening. I would also like to add that while this conversation was happening it was sleeting and snowing at the same time.
I explained my reasoning, and didn’t even point out that I’d already told him about the weather. Because he is at that magical age of being all-knowing, he presented me with several well-thought-out arguments as to why letting him take the car would be just fine. When I still didn’t budge, he then casually said “Can I at least drive on the way over to my friend’s house?”
Without thinking, I said sure. His head popped up faster than the price of eggs. The look in his eyes nearly screamed “Aha!” I panicked. I was caught, but didn’t know how or why.
Maybe he does know everything?
He said “If it’s ok for me to drive with you in the car, why isn’t it ok for me to drive without you in the car?” For a few moments I contemplated how he got to be this clever. And then I struggled with how to explain to him that it’s just safer with me there. Why would that be? I would wager probably for the same reason that when you’re a small child you think you’re safe from the imaginary monster under your bed if your blanket is covering your feet.
But all I could say was “It just makes me feel safer. And if it gets icy, I can drive. I’ll be there if something happens.” This was when I was gifted with the “I just wish you trusted me.”
I do. If only you realized how I wish I could put you in a bubble and keep you safe from all harm. My trust in you – in all of my children – knows absolutely no bounds.
But the world is another matter. I don’t trust the world to keep you safe. And so I try, with hands that are still reaching for the hands of children who no longer need hands to hold, to keep you all safe and sound.
I couldn’t say all that to him, mostly because I didn’t want him to injure his eyes by rolling them too far back. So instead I told him I do trust him, and I love him. He’s a good kid, and told me that he loved me too. Don’t tell him, but this is one thing he actually doesn’t know: the worries that I carry in my heart for my children.
