(mostly) radical honesty

Somewhere between here and DFW International, sometime around 2 a.m., we’re traveling down the interstate.

 
I’m cursing myself for forgetting my glasses because, for miles, we’re stuck behind this tow truck with huge, backward-facing, orange-strobing lights. They seem like overkill, out of balance with the tiny sedan being towed. The lights are blurred and streaky, and Claire is laughing at me because I’d repeatedly assured Cory I’d be fine to drive at night.
 
She’s so tired.
 
But also overflowing, eager to tell me every little aspect of her trip. A long weekend in Utah, her first time as a solo traveler. She went to attend prom with some old friends.
 
Four days earlier, on the way back from dropping her off, I mentioned to my mother that I used to make the same drive all the time, as my friend Russell lived right by the airport.
 
“Did you date him? How many people did you date, that you never told me?”

Her voice was sharp, clipped. God, did she sound like her mother, like any moment she might say Aye, Jennifer! and then switch over to berating me in Spanish.
 
She’s been weird lately. In general, but specifically about the trip. Calling me five or six times a day. Texting in the middle of the night. It doesn’t come across like love, or even concern. It comes across like distrust, like I’ve done an inadequate job of raising her granddaughter.
 
“There are probably a lot of guys you didn’t know about, Mom. I wasn’t going to tell you every time I went out on a date. You know the big relationships, the ones that counted.”
 
Of course, I didn’t tell her. It’s twenty years later and she’s going to… what? Lecture me over things that happened two decades ago? Who knows how she would have reacted back then? She’s upset that I didn’t (don’t) open up to her, but she doesn’t understand how her behavior plays into that dynamic.
 
Claire, on the other hand, casually tells me, like it’s nothing, that the night after prom a guy spent the night in her room. “Don’t worry. He’s gay. And there were like four other people in the room.”
 
I wasn’t worried. Would rather have the kid sleeping at the foot of her bed than driving home when he didn’t need to be on the road. I tell her how we used to sneak guys into the dorms at UT for similar reasons.
 
And even if she had a guy in her room under different circumstances, she’s technically an adult. I can only hope I’ve guided her towards good decision making, and that I continue to do so, fully knowing that she will make dumb mistakes just like I did.

It’s hard to recall these two conversations without noticing the contrast.
 
The thought that keeps me up at night, the one I try desperately to shove down because I can’t deal with the panic, is that I’ve irrevocably fucked up both of my kids by raising them unconventionally.
 
In the light of day, logic prevails and I remember all of the reasons, the studies I’ve read, the conviction I feel.

But 3 a.m. demolishes all of that.

3 a.m., I find, demolishes most of my resolve. It’s just me, the darkness, and my brain telling me every possible mistake I’ve ever made.
 
It’s moments like the drive back from the airport that I must remind myself of when things get rough at 3 a.m. I am doing something right. She feels safe talking to me. She’s here, alive, and healthy. Three years ago, she could barely leave the house. This week, she flew across the country on her own.
 
Maybe I’m not failing.