It’s time to drive my son to school, a little before seven a.m. We pull out of the garage; I make sure he’s buckled, and say softly, “Night night,” and he smiles, eyes already closed, because we both know he’ll fall back asleep on the drive.
He attends a charter school that is twenty minutes away without traffic. He’s had hot chocolate for breakfast and it’s cozy in the car, heated seats and still dark outside. It feels comfortable and safe, like family.
My thoughts are my own for the next fifteen minutes or so, but as we get close to school I take a turn and he sways gently in his seat, totally relaxed, maybe allowing a half snore to escape.
I remember what it was like to be the kid in the car, dark outside, comfy inside, knowing proprioceptively where we were because I knew which turns came when on the journey.
I remember faking being asleep when we got there – because back then, “there” was home, and I had a high chance of being carried in if I was asleep.
As comfy and cozy and safe as it felt then, I’m grateful now to be the grown up. I feel both lucky and content to be the parent.
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