Tonight I was driving on the highway, enjoying the ride. Dave is usually at the wheel on weekends, and mostly I'm home weekday nights with the kids, but every once in a while I'll slip out after they're asleep to do errands. There is something incredibly relaxing about cruising along in darkness lit up by the glow of headlights. Especially when you're alone and nobody's shouting "I'm thirrrrrrrrsty!" or "He's hitting me!" I get a lot of good thinking done, and some not-half-bad singing. Classic rock or '70s.
I started thinking back to when I learned how to drive, at 17. Back then, being on the road at night scared me. I was fine during the day and had even passed my road test the first time (despite the fact that I almost hit a pedestrian when I was backing into a parking spot, but the instructor had been writing notes and didn't see the guy leaping out of the way, which sure taught him to never again walk behind a car labeled DRIVING SCHOOL). When I was out at night and peering into the blackness, though, I found it hard to get my bearings. It felt out of control. It took me months to get used to seeing things.
It suddenly occurred to me how similar my journey has been with Max. In the early years, life felt the exact same way—scary, impossible to get my bearings, out of control. And then, I adjusted.
I'm sure as heck not on cruise control, but now I am able to see.
Do you know what I mean?