Then
I don’t remember how old I was when I first started asking.
But I do remember, with fondness the many times that I was able to “stay in the
car by myself” when my parents went into the store.
I may have been tired or grumpy. But probably, most frequently,
I wanted to read a book. My parents would go into the store and I had my own
private time to immerse myself in whatever story I was reading at the time. The sun in Ventura County, CA would warm the
car to a comfortable, nap-inducing climate (nowhere near enough to be
dangerous, of course).
I honestly don’t remember how many times this happened. It
happened more than twice, for sure, but memories blur. I just remember it as a
period of time in my life, not as individual occurrences. My parents probably
remember the details better than I do; I remember things better from my adult
years than I do from my youth. Parents also tend to remember milestones in the
lives of their children fairly well.
I assume these instances, or this period of time in my life,
held the same meaning for my parents as it did for me, albeit from a different
perspective:
It meant that I was growing up.
I had volition of my own.
I could make important choices.
I could separate myself from my parents in small but
meaningful ways.
It meant that I had freedom of my own.
