Add this to the list of things you don’t consider in that moment when you find yourself anticipating a new life: someday, most likely, that kid is going to drive.
The small person who assured you that she didn’t have to go as you walked past the last of the public bathrooms at the zoo but peed her one and only pair of pants seven minutes later that one day when it was 98 degrees and you decided that it would be good fun to cart five kids to see the polar bears with every other frantic mom who had run out of Otter Pops? Yeah, she’s going to be behind the wheel.
That kid who was fully ten years old before he could handle the fact that the melamine plate with Thomas the Tank Engine on it wasn’t necessary for every single meal ever served? He’s going to be put in charge of a two-ton vehicle.
The boy who still can’t figure out that you need to wait a three stinking minutes before slurping down the bowl of noodles you just pulled off the burner or else you risk third degree burns? Someone is going to give this person a license to operate a motor vehicle.
This week, I escorted my two oldest sons to the local DMV which was, I have to say, shockingly well appointed and staffed by the nicest folks I’ve ever encountered in that line of work. This was especially good because I am not exaggerating when I say that any time you witness your kids crossing the rubric that allows them to do things that come with fatality statistics, having someone smile and you and sincerely laugh about the weather is a nice touch.
As I finished up my business with the last DMV representative of the day, she handed me my paperwork with a big smile and complimented me on raising two polite young men. Before I could thank her, she nodded her head knowingly and gave a wistful sigh.
“It’s all faith from here, Mom. ‘Jesus, Take the Wheel.’ Literally. You feel me?”
I did. And then some.
And then I gave a little thanks to God that it was raining buckets outside and I was still the one Jesus was using to guide the wheel… today.