Summer, a time for processing

In the waning light of two fortnights, I will no longer be the mother of children.

If this had not been evident by the passage of time itself (despite my refusal to allow developmental classification to rob me of my children when it switched them with “adolescents” a handful of years ago), it was apparent by my soon-to-be-graduate son’s increasingly sheepish grin.

When prodded for the reason behind his bubbling mirth, he just shrugged and admitted that his REAL plans for the summer were still in flux.

Really? Now, I had known there were college orientation days, and routine doctors’ appointments that had been committed to several calendars, equipped with alarms where they hovered in cyberspace and circled in red where written on the whiteboard of analog … lest anyone forget. 

Not to mention that we had ASS-U-ME-ed that at least a few of these fleeting summer days would include some measure of gainful employment. Maybe just enough to keep him flush with pocket money during his first college semester.

His real plan, he admitted, was a road trip to Canada, where he and a few friends would go on one last adventure before they scattered across the country. In this plan, they would cross a border, show their passports, and, though he did not attest to it, I knew he would gain access to a land that would let them imbibe before they turned 21. 

The flux part was turning out to be syncing the schedules of his core constituents.

Oh, how my heart leapt into my chest.

Summer … The time when all safety-conscious parents operate on high alert.

You know who you are: When you fired up the grill you made sure it was clean and clear of nearby combustibles; You chose your highway travel plans to coincide with optimal road conditions even if it meant driving at off-peak hours; and you made sure you kept your eyes on the kids at all times in the pool.

I remember thinking the only time I was able to let down my guard was when the leaves started to fall and my husband secured the winter pool cover in place. 

Despite all that angst, I’m surprised to feel as if this is truly the summer of my discontent.

That moment when you actually let go … Just before they will be out of the house and on their own anyway.

And you really just have to hold your breath and hope that you have not only said and modeled all the right things, but that your children have absorbed and adopted them.

As I read and reread official guides for "Summer Safety," complete with  "Tips For Summer Travels," it seems apparent that planning is key.

Of course, you want them to start by planning NOT to get drunk. But even if that’s their goal, you want to have already committed to taking transportation that doesn't include the keys they may have in their pockets. They should plan to use public transport or call an Uber to bring them back to their home base, be it a hotel or campsite. Not only because it’s the law, but because it’s the safest, sanest thing for everyone.

And yet, having tried to drill that into his head since the day he grew taller than me, there is also the reality that no matter how sober he might be, he must remain aware that there will undoubtedly be people behind other wheels in his general vicinity who may be sloshed.

“I know … I know,” he’ll say. “I’m a good driver. I don’t get distracted. I don’t text and drive. I don’t even fiddle with the radio. There is no way I’d drink and operate my car.” 

His voice is soft and reassuring when he reiterates with the ultimate of all oxymorons: “You don’t have to worry, Mom.”

Perhaps he’s not wrong … Planning takes many forms. Some of them are literal ones that require time for processing.

“Have you checked your passport? Getting it renewed might take all summer, not just a fortnight.”