Forgive me...

Perhaps I failed to mention, Child One is now a driver.  It was with great anticipation that I awaited the day of her test at the DMV.  And I admit that I pushed her to make the appointment, pushed her to get her license as soon as she was able.  And now, Child One is a driver.  And I am no longer necessary.  Yet more proof of my middle-aged insignificance.  Child One goes where she wants, when she wants, as long as it is before the State of California 11pm curfew.  And as long as the lady who lives in the GPS of the Prius knows how to get where she wants to go.  And so she goes.  To horseshows.  To the frozen yogurt place.  To her friends’ houses.  All the places I used to drive her, she now drives herself.  And I face Saturday and Sunday mornings with no plans.  That should bring blissful excitement.  I could sleep in, get my nails done, go shopping.  But in fact, all it brings is a sad longing for a moment in time that has passed and cannot be replaced.  Drive time.  Singing show tunes on the ride from Friday afternoon pick-up or chatting on Saturday mornings about what to cook for dinner, who was mean in school or what the latest fashion choice is at school.  I miss drive time.  I miss the little girl I used to chit-chat with in the car.  That round little girl got replaced by a slender young woman with a driver’s license.  And the young woman is delightful and interesting and loving.  But the little girl is gone.  And I will always miss her.