On the first day of Grade 9, my daughter asked me to drive her to school. New high school, new neighborhood, new people. She also had a new outfit to look cool yet understated enough in case she bumped into the few friends from her old middle school. But she’s dressing for a different reason—her own. There’s a lot going on in her brain and as getting a lift from me takes the anxiety out of that first bus ride, I agreed to drive her. But then she said, “You can’t get out of the car, dad.”
We drove there and parked right in front of the school. We still had 15 minutes and could see older (returning) kids greeting each other. There were clumps of people and there were individuals walking into the building. You can tell they were new by their wandering eyes and tentative approach; their unhurried steps betrayed their ascension into a new stage of life. We waited in the car and chatted as we people watched. Do you want me to walk you to the steps? “God, no!” How about I play Cyndi Lauper with the windows rolled down? “Don’t you dare, dad!” Five minutes to go and her heart was racing as she didn’t want to walk into the huge building all by herself. Then she saw a friend in the distance. She squinted to confirm. Yes, a familiar face! “Gotta go, dad. Love ya. See you at home.” And she bolted out the car, bee-lined to her friend and ditched me.
It’s been many weeks since that first ride to school on her first day. She doesn’t wait for a friend to show up anymore; she simply gets out of the car when I do drive her. We live in the city, so many kids go to school on their own via public transit. But there’s also a steady stream of cars that drop off and as soon as the kid is out, the car pulls away. It’s like clockwork and no separation anxiety compared to daycare drop off once upon a time.
How did a drive to school turn me into such a basket case?
I’m glad that my daughter still sees me as her anchor for these transitions. I guess I will always be that to her. I’m happy about that. We’ve shared enough thoughts and conversations that she implicitly trusts me to be there as her tether gets longer and thinner. I’ve seen her grow to be a level-headed thinker whom I trust to make good and age-appropriate choices so she can step into those new situations, although tentatively, but assuredly.
I get to peer into her world, not as a participant, but more and more as an observer, now. She’s making her world according to her preferences, standards and morals. There are some edgy elements and curious characters that make this world of hers more than interesting as it is made and remade based on her increasing diversity of choices and maturity.
I don’t drive her to school every day, but when I work from home and have the time, I enjoy our rides. Most of the time, it’s in quiet contemplation. And after every drop off, I leave and think that this too will eventually end. High school is only four years, and I can already countdown the seasons with one hand. One day, I won’t need to drive her; she could drive herself. And depending on where she goes for her undergraduate, we might even live in different cities. Then I’ll really lament these trips. How did a drive to school turn me into such a basket case?
