The License Is Only the First Test Along This Road

She has survived hours behind the wheel, with an anxious mother beside her groaning and yelling and gripping the seat. She has navigated lane changes on crowded freeways and squeezed into parking spaces between giant SUVs. She has learned to ignore the honking horns of impatient drivers lined up behind her, while she waits to turn left until all the oncoming traffic clears.

Now, she sits in line at the DMV, more nervous than I imagined she’d be. She adjusts, then readjusts, her mirrors, her steering wheel, her seat. “Horn, hazard lights, blinkers ... “ she recites, as she touches each, making sure each is where it is supposed to be.

A set of keys dangles from the ignition, with her name engraved on the key chain. Still, to me she looks so small and scared, sitting in the driver’s seat. Passing this test would mean the world to her. But is my baby really ready to head out onto the streets alone? And am I ready to let her go?

I hear her catch her breath as the tester approaches and orders me out of the passenger seat. “Pray for me, Mommy,” she whispers.

And I nod, then realize I am not quite sure exactly what I want to pray for.

Later that week I am at a party, circulating among friends I haven’t seen for years. “How’s your daughter?” they ask, and I blurt out the news, not sure if I sound worried or proud: “She passed her driving test. She got her license this week.”

They congratulate and commiserate, swapping stories of dented fenders and broken curfews and all the errands the kids promise they’ll take over and never do. They make it sound funny, but it is hard to laugh with my heart in my throat. And behind the banter, I hear what I feel--an uncomfortable mix of relief and fear. I am glad to be free of the burden of being my family’s sole chauffeur. But this liberation comes with a price that I don’t feel quite ready to pay.

Because it is more than a rite of passage, a driver’s license. It is a tie unbound, a child set free. No longer will I always know where she is, who she is with, what time she is coming home ... because I’m the one who drove her there and will pick her up. She is mobile now, able to travel beyond my knowing, to operate outside my reach.

I do not think of this as I hand her the keys for her first trip alone--a drive to her job, four miles from home. I recite the rules I expect her to follow: No giving rides to your friends. Always wear your seat belt. Keep your cell phone off. Call me when you reach your destination. No listening to the radio or CDs.

She rolls her eyes. “No radio? C’mon, Mommy. I have to have music. It helps me concentrate.” I shake my head as she continues to plead: “I’ll keep the volume down. I won’t switch stations. I’ll only listen to one CD.”

She moves in closer and our eyes meet. She looks thoughtful and serious all of a sudden, and her teenage whine is missing when she speaks. “Please, Mommy, be reasonable. Don’t make me promise that, because I can’t keep it. I want you to trust me ... I don’t want to have to lie to you.”

And I realize I’m negotiating with my 16-year-old, a child who has spent her entire life doing what she was told. There is power in the keys she holds. And she knows it, even if I don’t.

For months I compiled a scrapbook, of sorts, that I planned to give to my daughter on the day she earned her license. It is a gruesome collection of newspaper clippings, stories of young lives cut short by teenage drivers’ mistakes and misdeeds:

A car carrying five teens home from the movies careens down a freeway embankment, killing two of them. Two girls rushing to a friend’s graduation die when their car flips off the freeway and lands upside down in a ravine. A new driver in his new car is killed speeding along a deserted street.

It is frightening stuff to me--a reminder that while we worry about guns and drugs, car accidents still rank as the No. 1 killer of teens. I want my daughter to understand that before she takes to the road. But I have come to understand that I cannot use fear as my cudgel.

So the stories sit untouched at the bottom of my drawer. It seems naive to think I could invoke other teenagers’ tragedies to inoculate my own against vulnerability.

The keys in her hand remind me that I must learn to let her go--and trust that we will figure out together how to navigate this unfamiliar street.