We roll along the tired grey ribbon that lays willy-nilly between minty hills spotted in black-trunked oaks, and blushing with poppies springing out from the slopes with no regard as to which side of the fence they are on. Cows who have learned not to care about mere cars are held back from the road by tired old fence posts and slack barbed wire that only pretends it is what is keeping them in. Vineyard rows flick by like someone shuffling cards. Guy rides in the back and I ride shotgun, as Ellie and I sing along to the radio. I love it that we know the words to the same songs. It closes the gap a little that has formed lately between teen and parent-of-teen.
A song comes on; Beverly Hills, by Weezer.
"I can't hear this song without hearing your little two-year-old voice in my head, "Honey! Honey!". She's heard the story a thousand times before, but unlike my retelling of other tales from my ancient past, this one doesn't bother her because it's about her. But she knows it so well, I don't need to say any more (to her, anyway. You might require a wander through my memory with me. Let's go...).
Each of my kids has a song, one that became theirs because they loved it when they were little. For Ethan, it was Yellow by Coldplay. He would lustily belt it out whenever he saw a school bus; "And it was aaaall YELLOOOOW!". Natalie has loved Shut Up and Dance by Walk the Moon. She adored singing the Shut Up part, since (hello, obviously) that is a HUGE swear word. Words. It's two words...yah, whatever. You get the idea. The other kids had songs, though I am blanking on them at the moment, to which I am entitled because there are FREAKIN' SIX OF THEM. (Kids. And songs.)
But I remember Ellie's. At several points in the song, tucked away in the chorus, a woman's voice can be faintly heard, and to Ellie, she was singing, "Honey! Honey!". I loved it because I knew that 1. It couldn't be right, and 2. It was better and likely cleaner than any lyric that was probably there. Plus, I figured her cute pink brain settled on that particular word because she heard me say it all the time, "Dear and Honey are Daddy. You guys are Sweeties and Darlings."
Seventeen year old Ellie then calls me back from my happy little flashback with a lightening bolt. "Kinda crazy that I used to sing that from my car seat and now I'm the one driving."
Crazy? Um, ya think?! Yes, madam! It is more than "kinda" crazy that she was a tot 14.75 weeks ago and now she is literally driving, and longing - as she is quick to remind us - to be driving off into the sunset. Only, in her version, she's in a turquoise and white Mini Cooper and not mom's wrapper-and-sock-filled Minivan.
She's a good driver. She will graduate to excellent driver once her dyslexic brain can wrap itself around backing while turning. I'm hoping she'll get used to the narrow winding roads and the steep edges (insert subtle life metaphor, here). I have taught each of my kids (so far. I'm waiting on the six year old to get a little taller) how to drive, and they are always very anxious to accept my direction - right up until they "know everything", and then I have to learn to be quiet, hold my breath, and hold on. It's really the in-between place that's the hardest, when they still need you but don't want to need you, and when you are trying to stop yourself from helping, and still wind up speaking up.
Shut up and dance, right?
That's right, Honey.
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