Mom's TAXI

Letting go is hard to do. My son turned 16 this week. He received his driver’s license and he drove himself to school. I almost cried. I didn’t, but I almost did: an era is over. And so it goes.

I turn to the cute, decorative ornaments hanging on my wall that once depicted my family: my husband with a camera, my son with a cowboy hat and six-shooter, my daughter in ice-skates, and me… in a car with the kids in the back seat. The car’s license plate reads, “Mom’s Taxi”.

Mom’s taxi has made its last run. The ornaments were purchased many years ago when our family was much smaller and more dependant on Mom’s ability to taxi, heal the boo-boos, feed the hungry and answer any questions that came out of a four-year-old’s mouth during our car ride. “Why can’t we see the wind?” “If Papaw dies, will I die when I go to sleep?” “How does Santa get down the chimney, and how do we know that we are safe if he’s in our house while we are asleep?” In addition, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank our 42^nd President for this question, “Mom, what is oral sex?” There was a question influenced by a friend’s older siblings… “Didn’t the Nazi’s have sex with their children?” I was also asked the standard, “Where do babies come from?” And “How does the moon hang in the sky and not fall?”

Now both our children have their own wheels, my son isn’t a cowboy, my daughter has long since abandoned the skates, and for a brief moment, I feel as if I’ve lost my identity… I ask, “How do my tears remain in my eyes and not fall?”