For the past 16 years, I have chauffeured my daughter, Katie, everywhere—school, volleyball games, field days, parties, sleepovers, trips out of town, treks to the farm, and Target—more times than I care to count.
There have been so many memories along the way. When she was very little, we tried to work out the complexities of her being adopted from another continent, of being blessed with beautiful almond-shaped eyes and dark hair when everyone else she knew had eyes that were round, hair that was light, and skin that was pale. We anguished over bashing by a bully; we exalted over good days with great teachers and wonderful friends. As time went by, the car was where we would battle over a lackluster grade or a decision we seriously disagreed on. When I had control of the dial and CD player, musicals prevailed. By the time Katie was in second grade, her rendition of “Blow, Gabriel, Blow” was especially fine. Now I can belt out by memory most of Rihanna’s repertoire.
But my grasp of modern music may end there. A few days before Katie’s birthday in October, a lovely silver car, purchased on eBay, was delivered to our door. Of all the stages of childhood, losing our daughter to a set of car keys may be our toughest adjustment to date. It’s so much harder than when she shot up three inches taller than my husband and I or felt it was OK to disobey. Suddenly our home has turned into the place she comes to be fed and rest her weary head.
We’ve become a boardinghouse.
My husband and I plaintively ask each other, “Do you know where she is?”
Instead of putting a tracker on her car, we’ve set new rules about how many weekend nights she can be out. It’s not for any more significant reason than that we really miss having her around. For both of us, she’s our favorite person.
On the upside, she’s learning the city, although in retrospect, I wish a sweet-16 party 15 miles away in Benton Park hadn’t been one of her first destinations. Her birthday celebration this year was held in the Central West End—a party we planned during one of her practice drives, when I was still in the car monitoring.
The CWE is a focus of this issue, from the neighborhood itself to living in The Chase and around the corner and down the street at
4545 Lindell. Soon Katie will be as comfortable driving to Euclid Avenue as she is getting to her school on Warson Road. And then she’ll be off—and this time it will be farther away, to college, with new streets, new experiences, new faces, and great new adventures.
Growing up is hard to do. Been there, done that, know it all too well. But who knew it was this hard for parents?
