Time together acquaints one youngster with a growing collection of new encounters
By George Valadie
The first time I wrote about Brady, I hadn’t even met him. He was in the womb, Katy’s to be exact, our oldest.
So, what I wrote at that time wasn’t so much about him. Instead, it was about all the cool baby gear his mom and dad had bought, been given, and were accumulating as they prepared their world for his entry into it.
If I recall correctly, I think all Nancy and I had acquired in advance was a secondhand crib for our firstborn child and an old-fashioned pail for her old-fashioned diapers. We were old school since it was our only choice.
As they always do, times change. Among other items, Katy and her husband, Clint, had been showered with a wipes warmer and a pack or two of orthodontically approved pacifiers. And the baby bed came equipped with the ability to eventually transform and expand into a big-boy bed, sufficiently sized to host a neighborhood sleepover.
Someone else gifted them with a baby-bottle sanitizer. Wasn’t us, we had no idea such even existed. It was a rocket-shaped gizmo that sat on their kitchen counter and did for him what her parents never did for her.
Looking at it always took me back to when our own kids were a little bit older and we kept losing that one last bottle we owned.
“For the love of all that is holy, will someone please find that dang bottle? She’s getting fussy.”
“Here it is, under the couch!”
“Well, blow the dirt off of it, put some Tab in it, and get it in here.”
Much to our three daughters’ consternation, I will confess I have at times staged a mini-rebellion of sorts toward bits and pieces of their child rearing, though I prefer to think of myself as more of an “introducer.”
Whenever the grandkids would spend time with us, I’ll readily admit to being the one most likely to have fed them some particular food item they had yet to taste. Or let them have some “first” experience.
I know I introduced Brady to doughnuts and ice cream and Diet Coke. And several other treats that prompted a raised eyebrow. I took him on his first walk through the neighborhood while introducing him to the lessons he’d need for crossing his street. He was 2.
I also introduced him to freedom—from footie pajamas. Just the idea of sleeping with your feet bound up still makes me cringe. When they asked us to let him sleep over one night, he arrived in just such a one-piece.
I waited until she left. Then cut off the footie part of his sleepwear. Gave him back with ragged pants legs and a threat that a similar fate awaited any others. Time heals, I suppose—she still lets him sleep over.
All that seems like yesterday. He’s 16 now and I have introduced him to a different sort of freedom. We’re learning to drive.
Like many teens these days, he was reticent to take the test and not all that interested in getting behind the wheel. But one Saturday afternoon we found an empty parking lot and I allowed him that first spin.
We hadn’t asked his mom, just jumped in headfirst. I was hoping she had gotten used to me and my ideas.
But he’s all in now with dreams of his own car. His test has been passed, and mom, dad, and I have become his instructors.
Thankfully, none of us own a car with a clutch. Years ago, when our girls were learning, they not only had to navigate an extra pedal, they had to do so on the hill in front of our house.
“Look, there they go … oh, no, wait, here they come.” We bought several through the years.
When Brady and I are out and about, we talk about all the things you would imagine.
Blinkers and the messages they send and the ones we receive. When to ease on the brakes and when to slam on them. What green arrows tell you and why green lights don’t mean the same thing. Easing in and letting others do so. No phones, no distractions, no daydreaming. Parallel parking, the need to master it, and the desire to avoid it.
I don’t know what his folks do when it’s their turn, but since he and I sit side-by-side, we’ve developed a bit of a sign language mixed with some blurted-out utterances that aren’t real words. Seemed better than hollering.
Thankfully, we’ve only had one close call thus far. I’d say prayer saved us, but there was no time for that. I was uttering things for sure, but none resembled praying. I’m attributing that escape to luck while grateful for the lesson he had an opportunity to learn.
Our time together is working toward its end. Because if we refine a few things, get a lot more experience, and pass the road test, come January he’ll be really free.
I’ve enjoyed our time together, but I’m secretly hoping some of these lessons might carry over when all the freedoms of growing up land in his lap … and we’re no longer there.
As life always does, he’ll no doubt find himself heading down some unfamiliar roads—literal and otherwise. Hopefully, he’ll take in all his surroundings before deciding if he should merge in. He’ll need to decide when to slow down and when to hard stop. When to detour and when to about-face.
He’ll be forced to decipher all sorts of signs that give off all sorts of messages—visual, verbal, social media. And in the world of young adults, one bad choice and you can find yourself locked out and you can’t find the key.
His life would probably be better with no phones, but that’s not happening. Everyone should daydream a little. But for sure, the distractions he’ll face will only grow in number and volume.
Getting where he’s going will only get harder.
I’m praying at journey’s end he gets home safely to mom and dad—and You.
Dear God—Life’s voyage comes with all sorts of speed bumps, detours, and close calls. Many we put there ourselves. May we be ever mindful of our ultimate destination. Amen.
George Valadie is a parishioner at St. Stephen Church in Chattanooga and author of the book “We Lost Our Fifth Fork … and other moments when we need some perspective.”