Twitchy.

I’m not sure if it’s his hands on the steering wheel or me in my seat, but the rain is turning to sleet as we wind up the canyon. I give him side-eye, my son now taller and broader than me with his shiny new driver’s license tucked in his wallet. His arms are relaxed, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the same line his father gets when I remind him about trash or the need to buy horse feed.

Pushing my foot through the passenger floorboards, I’m stressing him out.

I take a deep breath and count to five, but it comes out as a sigh.

His eyes get squinty and his shoulders hunch forward.

I count to ten this time and try not to breathe too loud.

When did I last check the tires?

“So you excited about speaking at the conference?” he asks.

“Really more trying not to throw up,” I say.

“You’ll be fine,” he tells me. “Want to stop for Coke or something? It might settle your stomach.”

When did we switch? Aren’t I supposed to be the one driving the car, reassuring, and giving dubious medical advice?

On one hand, there’s a maternal pride that I have shepherded a fussy, unwilling to nurse infant into a capable young man.

But I’m a really crappy backseat driver and the trickiest s-curves are coming up.

“Roads are getting a little slick,” he says. “I better ease off the gas a little.”

I count to three and think about daffodils and spring. It’s gonna be fine.