Watching them drive away

I said good-bye to my kids at the door, then went to the window and watched them walk to the car.

My son - long, gangly and incredibly teenager-ish at 14 - walked to the passenger side. My daughter - 17 now, but in my mind's eye still my little baby girl - walked to the driver's side.

They got in. The car backed out. I waved, and saw my son's hand through the window. Then they pulled up the road and were gone.

"How was THAT for ya?" my wife asked.

"Bizarre," I said. "Truly bizarre."

Those two kids disappearing up the road were four and 18 months when my first wife and I separated.

In the dozen years since, I have moved no less than six times, struggling to balance work, the desire for a social life for myself and the desire to have a home with them.

In the dozen years since, I've had three different jobs, each successive one offering me more money but taking me farther away.

In the dozen years since, I've had a number of relationships, inconsequential at first but leading eventually to a second marriage. And my marriage, for all its wonders, brought my kids more changes - two step-brothers, a step-mother, a new baby brother and a host of things competing for Dad's attention.

In a way, time in the car was one constant through all those years and all those changes.

One of the first things I started doing with them was driving into Pittsburgh for church on Sundays - an hour each way. I'd pick them up to stay with me on weekends, drop them back off at weekend's end - even when I lived an hour away. Once a week I'd pick them up and go to Burger King (it had a play zone) or to my parents' house. Then I'd drive them back.

We always had fun. We'd play the alphabet game, "I spy," other word games. As they got older, we started singing, doing harmony to church songs. And we talked - goodness, we talked! Both of them to this day remark about how much that time in the car, the three of us, has meant to them over the years.

In fact, time in the car has been probably more than just a constant - it is like a symbol of my commitment to fatherhood, an assurance. No matter the circumstances, they knew that I would be there, would get them, would take them with me, that I would travel to the ends of the earth for them. And as long as we were together we were, in a way, home.

And then poof! It was gone. They were off in the car, by themselves, without me. My commitment was no longer necessary. My symbolism was drained of its  force. No longer was it about me coming to them; now they could come to me - or not. The power shifted; an era ended.

Which is OK, of course. Eras are supposed to end. Our kids are supposed to leave us. And they're not supposed to understand the depths we feel, the true meaning of our commitment - it would suffocate them if they did.

But it's not like we have to like it.

"It really is nice not to have to drive," I told my wife, still standing at the window. I imagined my kids in that car, talking, laughing, feeling the same kind of freedom and power I felt at the same age.

My wife put a hand on my shoulder.

"They'll be back," she said.

In some ways, yes, they will. But in some ways no, they won't.

Brian David/Nov. 26, 2008

Read the complete post at http://pittsburghmom.com/blogs/burghdad/archive/2008/11/26/watching-them-drive-away.aspx