Nothing prepared me for the moment Firstborn drove off by herself, newly minted driver's license at her side.

I stood in the driveway and waved, feeling a little empty in my gut and listening hard for the squeal of too much acceleration. But she drove perfectly, off and away and doing all the right things. I scolded myself.

This day was no surprise, this rite of passage not unplanned.

For months, Firstborn had practiced driving whenever Mrs. G. and I would allow her to get behind the wheel, which was almost every day.

At first, I was freaked out. It felt like I was learning to drive all over again, only this time I wasn't backing into anything, I was simply riding shotgun. By the time she took her test, I could nap while she drove us to town.

But my child driving alone? On a freeway? The whole thing left me jumpy. And yet, freedom is the whole point of growing up, isn't it? Becoming a licensed driver is a first step toward independence.

But parents worry. Parents hold their breath until they can hear the car in the garage.

Teenagers don't view it that way. They've got more immediate issues.

A driver's license is a ticket to a clean getaway without your parents in control.

It's a license to stop for a cheeseburger if you're hungry. It's your guarantee that you're in charge of the journey and the radio.

How easy it is for parents forget that youthful thrill.

I was halfway through my senior year of high school when I got my license, the last teen in my circle of friends to do so. Up to that moment, my independence was tied to the driving habits of my best friend. When I had a girlfriend, she was the one with the station wagon.

I remember the rush of having passed the test. I had cut out of my morning classes and tried to slip into my English class unnoticed when I got back to school. My teacher didn't care that I was late and only wanted to know if I had passed.

That night, when I asked my father if I could attend a school basketball game, he tossed me the keys to the family's 1964 Rambler. It was a three-speed, column shift, rust-bucket bomb that leaked onto your feet when it rained.

Damn car was beauty on four wheels.

The drive to the basketball game was my freedom ride. Even today, I can still feel the plastic bench seat, hear the groan of the gears and feel the catch in my throat when the light turned red at the top of the only hill that night.

And in case Firstborn is wondering about that hill, well, I panicked. I popped the clutch, screeched tires and never mentioned it to anyone — until now.