Late-Night Lamentation

Twenty years into this thing and I've never established a good night-time "check in" plan for my kids.  When you fall asleep at 9 p.m. most nights, you're never going to win the "Best Parent" award for making sure the chitlins are safe and settled in their beds.

For some reason, though, last night I found myself laying in bed, fretting about teens for three, long, sweaty hours.  And I knew that my daughter was downstairs.

Why all the fuss, then?  Was I doing a little parental penance for all those restful, silent nights I have had, unconscious and unconcerned that my kids had returned to their home, safe and sound?

I think the fretting was framed mostly in my gratitude that Allison had gotten to spend the evening with two friends she'd met at a film camp this summer.  These two kids found their way to Lincoln--one from Omaha, the other from Fairbury--to spend some time together.  Even before they left our house for the county fair, I found myself worrying about their late-night drives home.

I'm not the greatest night-time driver, especially on the interstate, where cars go much faster than I'd care to travel, not to mention the way the night sky sucks up all the lights around me and makes me doubt what I think is a curve just ahead.

And so, for three hours last night, I battled images of a tired teenaged boy, alone in his Honda CRV, trying to maneuver his way onto the interstate, weaving between drunk drivers and highway dividers.  I imagined a tired dad nodding off on the way back home, his daughter asleep in the seat next to him.

Finally, around 1 a.m.,  I got out of bed to face what I was sure was the tragic soundtrack of these young lives.  Instead, I found Allison, alone in the basement, listening quietly to music while roaming the Internet.  Assuming I was in a sleep-induced stupor, she was  unable to understand my concern, her friends long gone, already home, tucked in by parents who stayed up to long enough say "hi."

My desire for my children's safety--and the safety of other people's children--is both deep seeded and delusional.  There are times when that concern clouds everything and weighs too heavily on my shoulders.  Those are the days when I wake to the latest news in Eric's new neighborhood, most of that news bad.  Those are the days I wake to find that Allison is that much closer to the next chapter of her life, and I imagine myself stunned and on my haunches, wondering what I am supposed to do next.

In my own childhood--happily devoid of bike helmets and closed-toed shoes, yet surprisingly safe, nonetheless--I don't believe I spent a single moment pondering my parents' concerns, their long nights of broken sleep as they fretted about their children's futures.  I now realize that they carried out their job in the best possible way--silently, stuffing down their concerns just long enough to make their kids feel free and happy.

Against all odds--despite all the rotten things and sick people in this world--Allison's friends found their way home last night, happily oblivious of the mother they barely knew, the middle-aged woman who fought off sleep to stand vigil for them.