BUCKLE UP...

Since he was about 12, Blake has occasionally asked "Can I drive?" when we are heading out the door to go somewhere. And I would always reply with something like "Did you have a big ole' plate of crazy for breakfast?"

But this morning, when he said "Mom, are you taking Kayla to the church lock-in tonight?" and I said "Yes," he asked "Can I drive?" And I had to say "Sure." Because today he gets his learner's permit. HIS LEARNER'S PERMIT. It was a struggle to calmly say "sure" to his request because my eye started twitching, I could feel sweat breaking out on my upper lip, my stomach did a flip-flip. He's driving. Starting today. Paul is in London. I am the one with whom he will be driving. On icy roads 3 days post-blizzard.

I am absolutely certain it was just last week that the only thing Blake drove were his matchbox cars and his "diggers 'n' dumpers."
My favorite story of Blake and his matchbox cars happened one weekend afternoon when he was about 2 and a half. I was pregnant with Kayla and taking a nap on the couch while Paul played cars with Blake on the floor. When I woke up I saw the cars in a huge straight line across the carpet. I was impressed. So I said "Blake, that is really neat the way you lined your cars up so straight and even." To which Blake replied. "I didn't do that. Daddy did that while I was in that corner poopin.'" So I just turned my head and gave Paul the raised eyebrow look and said "And have you changed that diaper in which he's been poopin'?"
Blake also loved his diggers and dumpers. Mainly because they were good with dirt. He loved dirt. The first time we built a house, he was five, and I decorated his room with diggers and dumpers wall paper, complete with dirt piles. Anytime we'd leave the house and I would be cleaning him up to go out I'd say "We need to stay clean, so no playing in the dirt on the way to the car." And, without fail, on his way to the car, he'd squat down and scoop his little index finger into the dirt and smile and continue walking to the car, grinning at his finger as though he was carrying a treasure. He was clean from head to toe except for one finger tip. And that little finger tip of dirt made him happy.

And now the diggers and dumpers are stored away, only brought out when little ones visit. The same with the matchbox cars. They've been replaced with a key chain. To hold real keys to a mini van and a jeep, and eventually a third vehicle whose license plate I hope will read CHPST 1.

Nobody warned me about this. This feeling of desperation to stop time. This feeling of disbelief that makes you want to argue "But 15 and a half years CANNOT have gone by simply because I blinked. There has to be some mistake!!" But to whom would I pose my argument? This is the way it should be. This is the plan. To let them grow up and gradually move farther away for longer lengths of time. I am doing my best to cherish this phase; every phase. Because to fail to cherish it is to miss out on it.

Just like Blake spent days counting and counting and counting, when he started kindergarten. And just like he read everything in sight when he was in first grade and eager to show off his new reading skills; I have a feeling we are in for 6 months of "Can we go to (fill in the blank)? I'll drive." And I will lift my eyes heavenward, and breathe some silent prayer and place myself in the passenger seat and buckle up.
This parenting trip is turning out to be an exciting ride.