Today, I am grateful for almost a decade of front-seat parenting.

I just put a name to this concept, but it occurs to me now that it’s been in play for years and years.

This weekend, I drove thirteen hours to drop my boys off at their Nana and Pop-Pop’s house. It’s a win-win — precious memories for our boys and my parents while they’re on an extended break from school and a precious breather for my husband and me.

While thirteen hours in the car might sound like utter dread to some, I was here for it. The weather forecast looked perfect for this time of year, which is a miracle in and of itself when you have to drive through Colorado, Wyoming and South Dakota in late November. The kids’ iPads were loaded and charged, and an ample snack bag was packed and stowed in the passenger seat next to me. I had even taken a few moments to download podcasts and an audiobook I’ve had on my must-consume list for many moons.

We grabbed our traditional drive-thru breakfast and headed to the Interstate. About 30 minutes into the drive, as the boys were finished up breakfast and (relatively) peacefully sinking into the lull of video games, I queued up my first podcast to play.

Glennon Doyle’s We Can Do Hard Things has been my spiritual practice of choice recently, and I was impatiently waiting to listen to the “Overwhelm: Is our exhaustion a sign that we’re CareTicking time bombs?” episode that’s all about her sister’s breaking point as caretaker of two neurodiverse children, family needs, a career, and all the things that go with all of that. (Almost too close to home, hence the impatience.) The episode felt like it was recorded for my life, for this exact moment in my journey. It was recorded on June 14th, and despite the fact that’s it’s been screaming my name, it was still unlistened to, which is a pretty perfect metaphor for the state of my self-care/mental health/personal development status: hanging on by a thread with a deep desire to be moving toward thriving.

Glennon’s voice came on to introduce the episode. I took a big sip of my coffee. Deep breath. Gratitude. Time. Space…

And then Pax’s voice. <Daaaaaaammit!> I closed my eyes for just a moment; took another deep breath and tried to summon my “patient” mom voice that I certainly didn’t feel. “Yeeeees, Pax?”

He replied, “I could see you doing this, Mom.”

“Doing what?”

“Doing this. What this lady is doing. Rowan, couldn’t you?”

And then there was another deep breath, and this time a summoning of my I’m-trying-to-sound-like-I’m-not-crying-but-I-am voice. “That’s a really nice compliment, buddy. Thank you.” And that was it. He was back to his video games, and I was left deep breathing and swiping away sneaky tears.

I wrote my first blog post in a year and a half at the beginning of this month, and I felt a little spark of life that’s been dormant. I wrote another and another, and with each expression, I felt a little more me. I little more open and honest and expansive. A little more like I was doing what I was put on this Earth to do. And then life happened and I slowed down, and I felt the creative part of myself threaten to go back to sleep. It made me a tiny bit sad, but who has time for grief about my own dreams going to sleep? Not me!

But with those tears rolling down my face, I revised my answer. Me! I’m tired of my own dreams going to sleep, and my gorgeous boy in the back seat called me on it, gently and kindly, whether he knew it or not.

It made me think of all those other moments of reckoning that have happened with me in the front seat and my wild, wise children behind me:

• the time I drove my 4-year-old child to his first developmental eval in Denver rush hour traffic, while dodging markers and flying shoes and verbal tirades, simultaneously praying that there was nothing atypical to discover and that there was help for our family and thanking the heavens that he couldn’t see all of that on my face.
• the time we were sitting at a traffic light that had just turned from red to green, when my 5-year-old yelled “Fuuuuuucking GO!” to the cars in front of us, and I realized in horror I needed to harness my road rage and also felt entirely grateful that he couldn’t see my shocked laughter.
• the time we were driving home from summer camp and my 7-year-old’s voice timidly asked “Mom, do I have Autism?” which led to another I’m-not-crying-but-I-am conversation that I wasn’t ready for but had to have anyway. I prayed that the heartbreak I felt for him didn’t negatively imprint on his self-concept.
• the time my kids dropped their entire mealworm colony in the backseat of the car and I had a split second to feel all the feels of fear, disgust and horror before I had to put my big girl pants on and handle the situation. I want them to always believe mom can do hard things even though I really didn’t want to do that hard thing.

Every day, I’m grateful for the few seconds of extra reaction time to figure out a game plan. Stop. Think. Lead with love. Respond with kindness. Sink into wisdom.

I’m not ready to sit in the same row of seats as my children. They’re too damn smart. They’ll look me in the eyes and see how much I don’t know. They’ll know immediately that I have no idea what I’m doing. They’ll see me stumble and I’ll lose all credibility.

Or maybe they already see it. They know how much I don’t know and appreciate that I’m willing to explore with them to find answers. Maybe they’re learning that it’s better to be open and curious than closed and inflexible. Maybe it feels good to watch your parents stumble because if they can get their old-ass knees back under them and stand up again, your strong little legs with impeccable balance will barely even register that you tripped at all and you’ll bound ahead without a second thought. Maybe they’re learning that they can laugh at mistakes and be imperfect, and they’ll still be a gift to the world. Maybe they know mama needs their encouragement to chase her next dreams because they’re at the heart of the ones that have already come true.