"You know what this evening needs?" I said to my family assembled in the kitchen. "Ice cream!"
"I'll go get some!" my 16-year-old daughter, Cassidy, said.
Before I could object, Cassidy grabbed the keys to my Nissan Cube and darted out the door with her younger sister in tow.
"Be safe!" I cried out. But Cassidy was already starting the engine and backing down the driveway.
For a split second, I felt an overpowering urge to rush outside and yank the car keys out of the ignition.
It happened every time Cassidy got behind the wheel. A feeling of dread would well up inside me, and I had to fight myself just to let her drive to bowling practice or a friend's house.
Sometimes fear won out and I said no anyway. "How about I drive?" I'd say. Better yet: "Get Dad to take you."
Cassidy had gotten her license just two months earlier, in February. Now it was April. Not a day went by when I didn't fear the worst every time she got in the driver's seat.
Tonight we were going to watch the CMT Music Awards. Obviously, ice cream was called for. I just wished I'd said nothing and slipped out to get some ice cream myself.
It was only a short drive to the market, but that made little difference to my fear. Anything could happen out there. Cassidy was just a teenager. Other drivers were careless. Images of catastrophic accidents played in my mind. It was only a matter of time.
Before you decide that I'm a crazy helicopter parent, I need to tell you something about myself. My fears about Cassidy's driving didn't come out of nowhere.
Fourteen years ago, I was involved in a catastrophic car accident. I'd been driving with the girlsjust toddlers at the time when an 89-year-old ran a red light and we collided. My car careened across the road, and I barely managed to keep us out of oncoming traffic.
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