Some lady in a tank -- er, Station Wagon -- pulled out in front of us as my sister drove me to choir practice. With the exception of some nasty scrapes on my knees and a big, gosh-darn goose-egg on the top of my noggin, I wasn't hurt.
At least, not physically.
Emotionally, it was a little different. My sister and I spent the first few weeks of summer break that year trying not to tense up as we entered major intersections.
She eventually got over it.
Me? Not so much.
As with many other things in life, I've struggled to let go of my strange fear of moving vehicles.
On Sunday -- as my oldest daughter turned 16 and ventured out alone for the first time -- that fear morphed into something so much bigger. Pangs of dread rippled through me while I watched her pull out of the driveway. I probably looked something like this...
|This is actually Molly during one of her many|
collick episodes as an infant.
Wow. Before that happens, someone better teach me how to let go.