My son drove off to his summer job this morning. Not a big deal you might say, but it was for me. It was his first time solo driving on a long drive – one hour over winding roads and commuter-filled freeways. He is a new driver, one with the necessary skills, but inexperienced simply because time hasn’t put enough close-calls and “that was not smart of me” encounters in his path.
So like any mother, I worry. I reassured myself that he is a careful and smart person. After all, he has no death wish – he will be careful. But, he is my son and I want to protect him, keep him safe. It was not too long ago, so it seems, the night before he 
turned five, that he promised me that he would always stay little and not grow up. But his hair has changed from blonde to light brown and he has grown two feet in stature. He plays guitar, mows the lawn, understands complex equations, chemical and mathematical, holds two part-time jobs, and … he drives a car. He’s growing up and is a fine young man – it’s time for me to start letting go and loosening those proverbial apron strings.
But that is the hard part.
I’ve reached that time in life that parents always talk about, “wait until you have children of your own, then you’ll understand.” And as I look back to my experience with my Dad, I see that the “letting go,” the caring and worry never totally stops.
For twenty years, from the time we had our first little one until my father began to struggle with his health, Dad would walk our family out to the car as we were leaving from our visit to my parent’s home. We would say our goodbyes and I would begin to pull away. Dad always stood very close to the car and I would say, “Stand back!” and be concerned that I would run over his toes. I was even annoyed that he always stood so close.
Somehow this came up in a conversation I had with my brother. “You know why he does that don’t you? He always touches the car and prays for your safety,” he said. And sure enough, next time I pulled away from my parents’ house, I checked the mirror. There was Dad’s hand on the back of the car and I knew he was whispering a silent prayer of blessing. So for the next several years, the silent ritual continued – my Dad’s blessing, but the annoyance in my heart replaced with gratitude that my Dad loved us in this way.
So it continues. I hugged my son goodbye this morning. He walked out the door and I closed it behind him. I gave him the freedom to pull away on his own, without my hovering stare. But as I retreated to my desk upstairs, I whispered a silent prayer of safety for him and a prayer of peace for me. It’s what we parents do.
An hour later, my typing was interrupted by a ding on my cell phone. “I’m here safely. Heart. Thumbs up,” reads the text. He’s growing up. Loosen the strings.