So it's officially the start of a new year, which means the season of "firsts" is upon us.
Every milestone of 2015 will have its genesis in today. Sort of makes you a little sorry you're greeting it feeling the way you do right now, doesn't it? Like you decided to beat 2014 to death with your head, and almost succeeded. Aspirin, hydrate, promise you'll never do it again. You know, just like last year.
When you're a parent, you're sort of all over "firsts." First words, first step, first embarrassing situation that has to be explained, etc.
And then, after what seems like just a few minutes but is actually quite a few years, all those "firsts" turn into "lasts." Last wandering the halls lost on the first day of school. Last locker that won't open, despite strict execution of the appropriate lefts and rights. Last time we'll have to do whatever it is that we're having to do that we tell ourselves we hate and that, in years to come, we're going to realize we really sort of miss. Sort of.
One of our last "lasts" backed out of the driveway and into the street the other day. At long last, the last of our kids to drive on his own is free, at last.
Consider yourself appropriately warned.
As with most aspects of child-rearing, I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. On the plus side, the Lovely Mrs. Smith and I have probably spent more time in a parking lot than a traffic cone. We have spent much of this time wondering, reasonably and politely, how, with all the tremendous advances in communication devices, no one still seems to know how to tell time. Or more specifically, that it's time for something to be over.
Now that that's out of the way and we don't have to worry about being nearly as many places at specific times, we get to focus our attention on other things. Like, worrying exactly where he is.
Our youngest has always been a very reliable sort. However, it's a lot easier to trust where someone is going to be when you actually delivered him there and will be back to pick him up. It's not like we live in the boonies or anything, but it's doubtful you can get into too much trouble when you had to run a marathon to get there.
The comedian Chris Rock said a man is as faithful as his options. While I'm not sure that's exactly true, I would say a teenager is often as honest as his ability to be somewhere other than where he said he was going to be.
My experience in the matter, from both sides of the parent-child dynamic, has been that, typically, what you get aren't so much sins of commission as omission. OK, perhaps there's a little commission in there, but for the most part, a teenage boy will be completely truthful with you when he or she says he went to store, just like you asked.
What he will fail to mention is the stops at the mall, two fast-food restaurants (hey, 45 minutes is a long time for a teenager to go without eating), a basketball court, the community pool and the house of someone named Constance.
He will also fail to explain why a trip that normally takes all of about half an hour actually took an hour and a half, a full tank of gas and all the $20 bill you gave him while still netting a half-gallon of milk. And why every single instrument, mirror, radio or seat that could possibly be moved, adjusted or left on a volume considered under the Geneva Convention to be lethal has, in fact, been moved, adjusted or turned up. And not moved, adjusted or turned back down.
That's the disadvantage of being the last of four kids. All those other firsts you didn't get to be a part of? Well, our first rodeo is another one of them.
There are some other lasts we probably won't miss. Last massive car insurance bills. Last time we have to get out of bed in the middle of the night and jump-start a car because someone really didn't understand headlights have to be turned off. Last time you have to explain, well, that skunk had probably lived a full life.
And then he'll back that car out of the driveway one last time. And for the first time in forever, it will just be you two.
At last.
GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.
Commentary on 01/01/2015