i

The first thing you need to know is that he’s ok, the second thing you need to know is that he spun out on black ice on Glenmore on his way to work and crashed his new-to-him truck into a concrete barrier. The third thing you need to know is in the five seconds between I heard “I spun out on Glenmore” and “Yes, I’m fine, but I hit the barrier” I died a thousand deaths and aged two decades even though, obviously, logically, whatever had happened, he was well enough to call me.

They never tell you, before you have children, what a horrible thing you are doing to yourself — putting a piece of your heart, body, soul out into the world, exposing it to all of its dangers, nastiness, black ice on Glenmore.

They never tell you, when they lie that it gets easier, that as they get older, the dangers get bigger and your ability to keep them safe from the dangers smaller. You can keep that baby in a wrap, the toddler in your lap.

You can’t keep a 22 year old off an icy road when he has to drive to work.

He’s ok. Sad and angry at himself, of course. But he’s ok, that’s all that matters.

I’m not quite ok yet. My adrenaline, 10 hours later, is still elevated.

They’re not ours. But we think they are. And it hurts.

ii

Another thing you need to know is what parenting after divorce should look like. He called me and his dad from the side of the road as soon as he got the truck, with the help of a passer-by, onto the shoulder. I was on my way to pick him up in minutes, texting co-workers and cancelling meetings in the Uber that would take me to my car, while his dad talked with him on the phone, settling him down. He called for a tow truck — which would come in four to six hours — and I drove him to work. His dad left work to facilitate the tow truck transport later and then picked him up from work. Yeah, we could have made him take transit home in the evening after his stressful day. But also — while I drove his younger brother to a math tutor, his dad went to pick up the adult child who had just had his first car accident. To be with him. 

Tough love is bullshit.

We’re GenX parents. We know that first hand.

iii

I don’t know if you need to know this but I’d like you to know, or maybe I don’t even need to say it and you already know, I’m going to be sick for weeks now when I know that he’s driving and the weather is bad. I’ll find excuses to send him texts about the time that he should be arriving at work or home. Nothing so obvious as, “Hey, did you get to work safe?” But, like, you know. Memes, Instagram reels.

When he gives them a thumbs up, I’ll breathe easier.

iv

There will be other accidents. Worse ones. He got his motorcycle licence — and a motorcycle — this summer and every time he rode, my love and fear rode with him. There will be worse things than accidents: Heartbreaks. Injustice. Illnesses. Pain. Nothing I can do to protect him, nothing I can do to save him — not him, not his brother, not his sister.

They never tell you, before you have children, how helpless you will be after you bring them into this world. They never tell you how hard and heartbreaking it will be.

They talk about the love. And it’s there and it’s huge and life changing and all of that.

They never talk about the pain and the fear. 

But then, if they did — we wouldn’t believe them.

We’d have them anyway…

v

All you need to know is that he’s ok. It was really the perfect first car accident — dear god, I know there will be more. No one hurt, no other vehicle involved. Crunched bumper on the truck, but hey, that’s what bumpers are for, also, a jostled engine. (That’s the technical term. No, it’s not, I don’t speak car, but, you know, the engine is just behind the bumper, there was jostling and a loose cable or two. Really, I don’t need to be talking about this, I’m babbling, because I’m so relieved. He’s ok.)

And that’s all you need to know. He’s ok.

Also, maybe this:

*On Children
Kahlil Gibran

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you.

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.