In the Driver's Seat

Parker has never been a big talker.  As a little boy he made plenty of noise, but it was mostly motorcycle sounds and fire truck sirens and explosions from toy guns. It was probably a good thing he didn't have much to say, considering his sister talked a mile a minute from the time she opened her eyes in the morning til she closed them again at night. We have plenty of old home videos where she is chattering away to the camera, gesturing wildly with her hands and tossing her hair while he looks around solemnly and silently with his big brown eyes.
As he grew into a teenager, he became even less generous with spontaneous conversation.  And I worried about staying connected to him through these years that are notoriously tough to navigate.
Technology to the rescue!
Parker may be the strong silent type, but the dude is a texting machine.  He racks up more incoming and outgoings a month than the other three of us COMBINED.  And that is saying something.

This year, something magical happened.
He got his driver's permit.
And something changes when he slides into the driver's seat.
He speaks!

While he used to prefer staying home alone playing video games while I went grocery shopping or ran errands, now he jumps at the chance to "help me out" by driving me places.  Especially if it involves taking the truck, which is a stick shift, which I can not drive.
I know...I know...you're thinking 'how can a woman with two college degrees not know how to drive a stick?'.  That's a whole other blog post.
Anyway, this week Parker helped me take a load of stuff to Goodwill.  He stacked it all in the bed of the truck, and his Papaw would have been proud of this "strapping" young man.  Like all good Temple Men, he used lots of industrial nylon straps and a few bungee cords to tether and tie and wrap and knot those boxes securely.
And then he chauffeured me smugly, reveling in the fact that he knew how to do something I didn't and that without his skills I would be a helpless old woman with too many boxes of junk in her basement.  And he talked.  About his friends.  About his stay with his grandparents.  About who invented the interstate system.
I just listened and smiled.
Yesterday, he drove me to the store in a neighboring town.  He talked.  Mostly about cars...which ones were cool and which ones were stupid...what kind he wanted when he turns 16...how to modify exhaust pipes...and how much rims might cost.
But this time, he didn't just talk.  He started to ask questions.  Like a real conversation.  He asked me what I thought about current events, and why I chose the career I have.  We chatted about big things and little things.    It was nice.  While he probably won't ever be a talk show host, I am starting to worry less that he'll be a mute who only communicates through texts.
It's not easy for me to be a passenger.  I would much rather be in control, steering us where I want us to go, with MY foot on the gas pedal getting us there on MY timetable.  But this is a parenting strategy I've worked to implement for years now.  Don't push.  Don't force.  Don't tailgate my kids' lives.  Watch, listen, respond.  The Rules of the Road have to be followed, of course, but there is more than one way to get to the post office.  They may choose the scenic route, but we eventually get there.  So whenever appropriate, I put my kids in the driver's seat.  And it seems to be working, because they keep letting me come along on the ride.