Sixteen years ago, on Oct. 31, 2001, I cut the umbilical cord on our firstborn son.
It's an odd ritual for dads, like helicoptering in to plant the ceremonial flag on top of Mount Everest after your wife has just run up the mountain carrying a rhinoceros.
On Halloween 2017, 16 years later, I felt like I cut the chord again. And this time the feeling was not so carefree.
There's something about taking your child to get his or her driver's license that feels like an organic unbinding, like something living and important has been severed.
Let's face it, most 15-year-olds merely tolerate their parents; forced into an uneasy alliance with us by their need for transportation - and money.
"Dad, can you take me to Ace Hardware?"
"Mom, can you run me to the soccer practice?"
But when the kids turn 16 and gain transportation independence, we parents become less important, perhaps even disposable. That's just the circle of life.
Parents may complain about the hassle of moving their 15-year-olds around town, but it's an open secret that most of us relish time together in an automobile with our "babies."
That's where we do our best interrogations.
"How was your day?" "How much homework do you have?" Or the all-purpose check-in: "Are you OK?"
When our 16-year-old son was about 10, I teased him by telling him that I would pay him $1,000 cash for each year he delayed getting his driver's license.
On the morning of his 16th birthday last week I asked, "OK, so how much would it actually cost me today to have you postpone getting your driver's license for a year."
"Seven thousand, five-hundred dollars," he said without missing a beat, as if he had figured it out to the penny in Algebra II.
He already had a car, for goodness sake, so asking him to put it on the shelf for a year would be silly.
Before he took the driving exam at the Bonny Oaks Driver Services center, we drove around and explored the area. In one direction there was a rail-road crossing, and we debated whether he needed to come to a complete stop if the traffic control signal was not sounding the alert.
He thought slowing down was enough. I suggested coming to a complete stop: Better to be safe than sorry, I said.
"But what if I fail the test because of stopping?" he said.
"You're not going to fail a driver's test because you stopped and looked both ways at a railroad crossing," I said. "No way."
(For the record, I later looked it up: Tennessee Code 55-8-147 says you don't have to stop at a railroad crossing if "a traffic-control signal directs traffic to proceed." Exceptions are school bus and cab drivers. Oh, well.)
While the boy took his driver's exam, I waited on a bench outside the testing center.
When he returned with the examiner, I could tell by the bounce in his walk that he had passed. About 20 minutes later he had his driver's license and a relieved look on his face.
"Can you put into words how you feel?" I asked him as he drove home.
"Not really," he said, seemingly preoccupied.
"Let me guess," I said, trying to elevate the moment. "I'll bet you feel like it took forever for this day to get here, but now you feel free. Right?"
"I guess so," he said, humoring me as he begin fiddling with the radio.
I realized I had lost my captive audience. I was now merely a passenger, and conversation with me had become optional.
In that moment, I could almost feel childhood leaving his body like a spirit.
I reached out and touched his shoulder.
"I love you," I said.
"Love you, too, Daddy" he said, softly.
I focused on the drone of the tires and swallowed the lump in my throat.
Meanwhile, the road ahead looked clear, straight and full of promise.