The engine hums quietly under the Beatles’ bassline as my thumb scrolls through the Slack messages that popped up since I left my desk 30 minutes ago. I’m parked at the upper curb, by the 7th grade door. I look up every minute or so until I see them: the Car Pool Girls walking towards me, laughing as they juggle giant backpacks, lunch boxes, oft-forgotten coats and water bottles. They’re all wearing the de facto middle school uniform: oversized hoodie, shorts (yes, even on cold days), and Nikes — an ensemble that shows they aren’t trying too hard, but their perfectly curled hair gives it away, anyway.
Suddenly the quiet is overrun with the bustle of tween energy. They pop the trunk, throw in their bags, throw open the doors and debate whose turn it is to sit in the way-back. It’s only a matter of time before someone groans, “I’m so HUNGRY!!” Most days, I remember to bring a snack — something they’ve come to expect. It’s a small gesture but makes all the difference as we take our place in the line of traffic pooling onto the highway. With full bellies and a warm car, their conversation picks up where they left off, and I smile to myself as I feign disinterest.
The weekly ritual of driving car pool was one I assumed I’d come to hate. After all, as a mom to three kids, my life is spent in the car between the hours of 2pm-6pm every weekday. Most of the time I feel like an underpaid Uber driver who’s chronically 11-16 minutes behind schedule. It’s a parenting phase that’s well-documented and frequently lamented — Marcelo Hernandez has even made an anthem about it. So imagine my surprise to discover… I actually look forward to car pool days.
When I’m driving car pool, I get to be a conscious observer. For 30 minutes, I am absorbed in their lives, hearing all about their friendships, their hardships and that one time in 3rd period when the power went out. They babble on about crushes and soccer and inside jokes, the concerts they want to go to and the anxiety surrounding upcoming exams. They chide each other for missing assignments or skipped study halls, and hold each other accountable for messages left on read.
The dynamics of their friendship become clear, and I see my daughter in a new light. In the safety of our Toyota Highlander with her 3 best friends, my serious, studious daughter becomes goofy and giddy, her quips surprising me. I see glimmers of the woman she’ll grow up to be, and my heart swells witnessing the evolution of their friendship.
I’ve known these girls since they were bewildered kindergartners learning to write their first sentence. Now I drop them off to empty houses and hidden keys, telling them to call me if they need anything before their parents get home from work. Driving car pool gives me a direct line to my daughter’s loyal confidantes and biggest influences, building trust in an ever-expanding circle of support. I hope they know that if any of them need anything, I’d be there in a heartbeat, and I hope their parents know the same.
As their chatter rambles on, I think: you four have no idea how vital this is. The importance lies not in the content of their conversation, but in the ritual of their connection. In two short years, it’s become clear that one of the best antidotes to middle school angst is strong friendship rooted in positivity and mutual support. As my influence wanes and my daughter’s social circle expands, I’m reminded of what a privilege it is to have this glimpse into her day-to-day life.
By the time the last kid is dropped off, I’ve made my mental list of topics to follow up on. We go about our day, squeezing in dinner between practice and homework. And then, when dusk falls and we all exhale, I lay with my daughter and have the chance to engage. I start gently. “Hey, remember when you guys were talking about…?” I say. “What do you think about that?”
Parenting the tween years is such a tightrope act. Logically we know we must back off, release some control and let them test their wings… yet there’s an incessant urge to pull them in closer, protecting them from the bigger problems that lie ahead and stop time from moving any faster. Connection becomes more challenging as they grow guarded with their thoughts and more acutely aware of how they’re perceived. Conversation is more vulnerable, and communication more strategic. What I’ve found is that my approach to building connection is the biggest predictor of the outcome. Often, I’m most successful when my approach mirrors the M.O. of my middle school kid: pretend like you don’t care, when you really care SO MUCH.
And that’s the gift that car pool has afforded me. Instead of prying, asking her questions she’s never ready to answer, I get to reflect on what was said between her and her besties as we drove down route 6. I’m finding ways to remain (quietly) a part of her world, instead of demanding that she fill me in. Instead of forcing an awkward discussion, I’m able to pick up the conversation where it left off, letting her take it any direction she chooses.
It’s become clear: connecting with my middle-school daughter begins with listening…or maybe, as it turns out, eaves-dropping. Either way, as the all-hands-on-deck parenting of the younger years gives way to the laissez faire approach of the tween years, embracing her friends and the bubbly banter between them is so much more than cheap entertainment. It’s a critical and cherished window into my daughter’s life and heart, allowing me to walk beside her into our next chapter.
