I was talking to a new mom today. She pointed at the dark circles under her eyes, and told me her newborn wakes her up each night for multiple feedings. “I get about three hours of sleep at a time,” she said.
"Three hours?" I repeated. "Must be nice."
Her dark shadows have nothing on mine; I’m the mother of a teenage driver. I can't sleep three minutes, let alone hours, when Kelly isn’t home. And since she turned sixteen, Kelly’s presence can be described the way some people order steak: RARE.
I don’t know who said, “There's no place like home.” I only know it wasn’t a sixteen-year-old. Kelly refers to the day she got her drivers license as “Independence Day.” She hasn’t looked back since, except to check her rear view mirror.
Last Saturday night, Kelly left for the evening to go to a movie with friends. I anxiously waited for her to return by her curfew. I paced back and forth in the kitchen, my stomach in knots. Finally I couldn’t stand it. I asked my husband, Steve, “Where is she?”
He looked outside. “Backing out of the garage.”
She hadn’t even left? It would be a long night. At least tonight she’s the one behind the wheel, I told myself. I trust Kelly - she's responsible, smart and driven by her goals. I'm way more nervous when she's being driven by a teenage guy.
There were no teenage guys on Saturday night. There were, however, sirens. Not just a few. A lot. Normally I don’t notice sirens, especially in the distance. But when Kelly's out I develop a super-power. I hear sirens like a dog who can detect sounds mere humans can't. Each one causes my brain to concoct some disastrous scenario (the least creative mother's imagination rivals JK Rowling's when triggered by a siren).
Finally I hear the sound I’ve been waiting for all night. The garage door opens. I hear the car pulling into the garage.
Then, I sleep like a baby.
