In The Blink of an Eye
by Patty Eggertsson

I am the mother of a licensed driver. These are truly frightening words. 

It has only been 4 days since he got his license but I am still in shock. When I watch him pull into the driveway coming home from school, I think, “Who is driving our car?” Then I am jolted back to reality when his lanky frame exits the driver’s side and I remember that the little boy who drove his Playskool Flintstone car around the yard, little legs flying fast enough to give Secretariat a run for his money, now commands a ’95 Escort. When did this happen? 

It is September 1982. I am 24. We have been married 11 months. The stick is pink, very definitely pink, and matches our eyes when we finish holding each other and wipe away our tears of joy. This baby, so wanted, is a surprise. It is a wonderful, delightful, frightening surprise. We tell our parents, who I am sure are somewhat thrown off balance at the thought that the years have caught up with them, and the life they brought into the world not so long ago will now be bringing a new generation into being.

The first visit to the doctor brings nervous excitement. I nod my head and promise to follow all the instructions regarding nutrition, sleep and exercise to the letter. I’ll think about how to fit chocolate and Pepsi into my diet later.
I don’t want to gain too much weight but I can’t wait to pop out enough to get into maternity clothes. At that point I have no idea that I will be wearing them long after the baby is born. That’s one of those little details they leave out when you get pregnant; that, and the real reason they refer to the last stage of labor as transition: God help you, you will be transformed into Roseanne Barr within seconds, and sooo not in a good way.

Being pregnant with the first baby is beyond special. Everything that happens is new, and it is all mine to experience. There is no morning sickness (read it and weep, ladies) and the first time I hear the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the heartbeat I know that I have entered the point of no return. I will do everything in my power to keep this little one safe from all harm. At that point it never enters my mind that one day I will let him get behind the wheel of a car; that special torment is reserved for later.

The first movement feels like the wings of a butterfly fluttering ever so softly. It is a quickening, barely a tickle, but it is there, and I am keenly aware of it. It is my own private moment, a dear one. Soon enough his movements are strong enough for others to feel as well, and I happily show off a kick or a shift in position without any prompting from the gallery. 

My old size nine clothes are retired and new big and baggy ones replace them. I am so excited to be in maternity clothes I don’t even mind that they are dowdier than the Queen Mum’s and almost as expensive. But I splurge and buy some “designer” maternity shirts. My designer, who shan’t be named here (hint: let’s just say it’s a former Charlie’s Angel, and I don’t mean Bosley, although frankly these clothes do resemble something he might have bought his wife if there was a Mrs. Bosley). I have casual shirts that have a large arrow pointing down that says “Baby”; dressier shirts for work that come up around the neck with a ruffle and a coordinating ribbon to tie at the top button, and for evenings out on the town, a red dress with buttons descending from the ruffled collar that spell “Baby”, with the ever present coordinating ribbon to tie around the neck, which is sort of a combination of all my maternity clothes, only longer. Apparently, the thought of dressing pregnant women mystifies clothing manufacturers, because even now, 17 years later, I still see the same sorry maternity styles being recycled, and it’s not really a true retro look, since these clothes were never really in style to begin with.

I have a four hour labor, culminated by my grabbing my husband around the neck and pulling his face close to mine so I can spit out the words, “You!! YOUUU! You did this to me! We are NEVER having sex AGAIN!” After a few minutes of pushing, our son is born, and I am able to place my hands under his little arms and pull him out of me, and lay him on my chest. We say a prayer to him, and my husband cuts the umbilical cord. It is a bittersweet moment for me: I have my son in my arms, but I know he has just left the one place that he will be closest to my heart. He will never be more protected than he was when he was growing within me, and from this point on, he begins his journey away from me. 

Days of snuggling and nursing give way to evenings of rocking and lullabies. Time is measured in terms of doctor visits, immunizations, growth charts. The switch to solid food and teething are milestones, akin to rolling over and sitting up. There are books on parenting and childcare stacked up in the corners of every room, although my “go to” edition will invariably be out of reach when I need it.

I wear his spit up stain on my shoulder like a badge of honor. It is a dead give away on the rare occasion when I am out in public alone. Of course, the perpetual rocking back and forth even though my arms are empty is also a clue, and other parents silently nod at me as if to say, “Been there, done that.” 

Somehow, months fast forward to years. There are lost teeth, first days of school, baseball and soccer games, broken bones, science projects, SAT exams, prom nights.

Time is mystical. Growing up, it seems that summer will never come, Christmas is always light years away, and school will never be over. As a parent, we experience the opposite: our children’s lives pass in the blink of an eye, and the four year old who wiggled and wobbled on his first bike ride, 
is now staring out of the perpetually horrible photograph on a newly issued driver’s license. 

We shake our heads, surely this image will disappear, and we’ll be back to the days of peanut butter sandwiches and bedtime stories. But this is not an Etch-a-Sketch, this is real, and the young man standing before me with the car keys in his hand is the same one that made his debut at 3:57 AM 16 years before. His long legs, deep voice and self-assured manner belie that image of the round faced, dependent bundle of emotion we brought home from the hospital at that time. 

When you become a parent, you make a pact with God that this child will be the most important thing in your life. Time waves its magic wand again: the longer you love, the more you love. It is worth it, as with anything, the more you invest, the higher the return.

So now, I am the mother of a licensed driver. It has been more than a year since I first began writing this article, and he has proven himself to be a responsible, mature young man behind the wheel. On the anxiety Richter scale, I only worry half as much as I did when he first began driving. Of course, half of a gazillion is still a lot. 

Patricia Eggertsson
Copyright June 2000

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