by Elizabeth Luciano

My 16-year-old daughter recently got her driver’s permit. She is the younger of two children, so her place in the driver’s seat signifies the end of an era in our family: the era of chauffeuring kids, which has stretched for nearly 20 years.

Like many families, it’s a progression that’s gone from preschool and soccer games to high-school events and part-time jobs. I used to joke that I should wear a jaunty cap and call myself “Jeeves.”

As any parent knows, hauling kids around town isn’t easy. It’s not the driving that’s the problem. The difficulties are in the logistics, weaving the needed transportation into an already jam-packed schedule; around our own jobs and the making of meals, and the running of errands large and small.

And once the kids reached high school, there was the exhaustion factor, especially heading home from jazz band competitions, late at night, and enroute to pre-dawn swim-team practices. I couldn’t bring myself to put a sticker on the car announcing Swim Taxi. It was just too painfully close to the truth.

I grew up in a bikeable suburb, and was able to ride just about everywhere: to the library, to friends’ houses, even to Dunkin’ Donuts once, when I was supposed to be at church. (The statute of limitations has run out on that one). But my children have grown up in a community that, for all its many benefits, is shot through with highways and busy intersections. It’s not particularly safe for biking, so driving them around has been part of the parental gig.

Now with the youngest child now practicing K-turns in the middle-school parking lot, you’d think I’d be turning cartwheels. There will be no more yanking myself away from the news in the early evening,  to drive to the movies or the mall. But instead of feeling delighted, I’m a little verklempt.  I’m shocked to realize that I might actually miss it.

When they were little, we passed the miles by singing songs and noting points of interest. (Dump truck! Schoolbus! Ice-cream truck!). But driving them around really got interesting when they made it into their teenaged years. The car proved to be the perfect place to discuss sensitive issues, with sex and drugs high on the list. The kids couldn’t escape the conversation, but didn’t have to look a parent in the eye.

There’s an odd peace in shuttling a kid to or from the high school at odd hours. It’s a quiet time and their defenses are down, so they tell you things they might not otherwise. They’ll discuss difficulties with a teacher, or concerns about the SATs, or friends who are wandering down worrisome paths. In return for the early-morning turnout and the wearing of sweatpants, you get a window into their world.

“Pretty soon you won’t have to do this anymore,” my daughter reminds me now, almost every time we get in the car. Some of the time, she is in the driver’s seat.

Yes, the idea of heading to the gym instead of making another run to the high school or the movie theater has its appeal, and it goes without saying that I’ll worry about her safety. But I have the rest of my life to arrange my schedule around myself, and just another year and a half more to hear what is on my daughter’s mind. Lo and behold, the task that often felt so demanding has turned out to hold great value.

Six months from now, she’ll be able to drive herself to her summer swim practice at 7 a.m., and then on to a summer job. She is dreaming ahead, to transversing New Jersey and heading to the beach with her friends. She will need me less, which of course is how it should be. I will be able to dawdle at the kitchen table, with a cup of coffee and the paper.

But just maybe, every now and then, I’ll ask if she’d like a ride, even if I don’t need the car.