Melvin Durai
My 18-year-old daughter, Lekha, a college student, recently got her driver’s license. She was happy when she passed the driving exam, undoubtedly relieved that she wouldn’t need to keep taking lessons with me. I had mixed emotions. I was happy and proud, but also sad and concerned.
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I was happy that my oldest child had achieved this milestone in her life. I remember my excitement when I got my driver’s license more than three decades ago. The idea that I could get into a car and drive anywhere I wanted was thrilling, never mind that I did not own a car at the time. Lekha does not own a car either, but she does have a car that she can borrow: mine.
I was proud that Lekha had earned her license without causing a single accident, no casualties whatsoever, not even a stray cat. All the animals in our town were smart enough to avoid crossing roads when Lekha was getting a driving lesson from me.
Well, there was one notable exception: a squirrel on a rural road, a squirrel whose parents had evidently not spent enough time on crossing lessons. The squirrel began to cross the road just as Lekha was approaching. Lekha panicked and swerved into the next lane, facing oncoming traffic. I quickly reached over and steered the car back into the right lane, scolding Lekha for overreacting to the squirrel. But I didn’t scold her for too long, because I knew this was a new experience for her.
What made me sad about Lekha getting her license was that we would no longer be spending time in the car together, at least not in the same way. I enjoyed sitting in the passenger seat and instructing her, took pleasure in seeing my daughter acquire a new skill. When she was a child, I had taught her how to ride a bicycle, and now I had taught her how to drive a car. What would be next? Could I teach her how to fly? Yes, but only if it involved a kite.
The driver’s license also caused me some concern. Lekha could now drive on her own, without me sitting next to her, instructing her to follow all the rules. Who would scold her when she makes a wrong turn or drives too fast or tries to look at Instagram?
Come to think of it, I had the same feeling when she started riding her bicycle on the road by herself. I worried that she would lose control and fall off her bike, perhaps hurt herself.
The worries were greater, of course, when Lekha and her two siblings were much younger, unable to even walk to the playground by themselves. Like other parents, my wife and I have had to gradually let go of our children, give them more freedom, allow them to take on the world on their own.
But letting go is so hard. I am already dreading the day that Lekha borrows our car and goes on a drive on her own. I want to be around to protect her, not just from any mistakes she might make, but from all the crazy drivers and squirrels out there.
I am also dreading the day that Lekha gets married, perhaps to one of those crazy drivers. I will be happy, of course, but also anxious about my daughter entering a new phase in her life, facing new challenges that I won’t be around to help her with.
Perhaps it would be wise for parents to let go completely one day, to stop worrying about their children and try to relax. I hope I can eventually do that. I also hope the same for my 88-year-old mother.
