That Time I Sent My 12-Year-Old Into The Gas Station Alone And Overthought The Whole Thing
Last July, we were four hours into a road trip to my in-laws’ cabin, stuck behind a hay truck on a two-lane highway, and the temperature gauge on the dash said it was 93 degrees outside. My 12-year-old, Lila, had been complaining for 20 minutes that her lemonade had gone warm, and she was begging for a blue Gatorade from the gas station coming up. My husband had been driving the whole time, so he’d leaned his seat back and passed out 10 minutes earlier, snoring so loud I could barely hear the true crime podcast I was half listening to. Our golden retriever, Max, had just stolen a half-eaten peanut butter cookie off the backseat floor and was covered in crumbs and slobber, so bringing him into an air-conditioned store felt like a rude thing to do to the cashier. And me? I had to pee so bad I was literally crossing my ankles under the dash, but if I went in with Lila, I’d have to drag Max in anyway, or leave him in the hot car, which I didn’t want to do.
So I handed Lila five dollars, and said “Okay. You go in alone. Get your Gatorade. Don’t wander off, just get it and come right back.” And she lit up. Like, I’d just given her a backstage pass to her favorite concert or something. She’s at that age where any crumb of independence is the best thing ever. She’d been bugging me for weeks to let her walk the three blocks to our local library alone, and I’d always said not yet, so this was her big win. She yanked the door open and hopped out before I could change my mind.
Then I sat back. And immediately started overthinking.
I watched her through the big smudged front window of the gas station. She was wearing those baggy high-waisted jeans she dug up at the thrift store back in May, the ones that are two inches too long so she rolls the cuffs twice, and her hair in that half-up mess she spends 10 minutes pulling apart every morning to get just right. She walked a little faster than she needed to, shoulders back, like she was trying to prove to anyone watching that she belonged there, that she wasn’t just some kid tagging along with her mom. The cashier was an older guy with a sun-cracked face and a faded trucker hat that said “World’s Okayest Fisherman”, leaning on the counter scrolling through his phone. Did he notice she was alone? Would he think it was weird that I was waiting in the car? Would some random customer think she was lost?
I’d had to pee so bad two minutes earlier, but now I couldn’t move. If I went in now, Lila would get so mad. She’d roll her eyes so hard her whole head would move and say “Mom, I got this, why don’t you trust me?” and that would be that. So I just sat there. Max panted on my feet, my husband snored, the sun baked through the windshield onto my arms, and I checked the clock on my phone every 10 seconds. Two minutes. Three minutes. Was she stopped by the sour candy display she always drifted towards? Was she okay?
I thought about when I was 12. My mom would send me into the corner gas station back home all the time, to get a gallon of milk or a pack of menthols for her. I never thought it was weird. I thought it was cool. I’d walk in, put the money on the counter, make small talk with the cashier who knew my name, and walk out feeling like a grown up. I don’t remember ever feeling scared. I don’t remember anything bad ever happening. Why am I sitting here panicking over a 12-year-old buying a Gatorade 20 feet away from me?
A guy on a motorcycle pulled up while I was thinking that, big black Harley, leather jacket, beard down to his chest. I watched him tuck his helmet under his arm and walk into the store. And my chest tightened up for no reason. I leaned forward, eyes glued to the window. What was he doing? Why was he going over by where Lila was standing by the coolers? Oh wait, he was just getting a bottle of water. He paid, waved at the cashier, walked out, and rode off. I sat back and felt stupid. My heart was beating like I’d just run a mile, and the whole thing was just a guy getting a drink on a hot day.
Four minutes after she went in, Lila walked out, grinning so wide her dimples showed. She had her blue Gatorade in one hand, a pack of sour gummy worms I’d told her she didn’t need in the other, and counted out two dollars and seventy five cents in change back to me, every coin there. “See?” she said, popping the cap off and taking a huge sip. “That was easy. You didn’t have to wait in the hot car, you could’ve went pee.”
I didn’t answer. I just counted the change, told her the gummy worms were for later, and let her roll the window down to stick her hand out in the wind. Later, when we got to the cabin, she told my 11-year-old niece that she’d gone into the gas station alone, and my niece’s eyes went wide, and said “My mom won’t even let me walk to the end of the driveway alone.” Lila puffed up her chest like she’d just won the state science fair.
People argue about this stuff all the time, right? I see it in the mom groups I’m in on Facebook. One person says sending a 12-year-old anywhere alone is reckless, that you’re just asking for something bad to happen. The other side yells back that helicopter parenting ruins kids, that you’ve got to let them have small freedoms to grow. I never comment. I just scroll past.
I still don’t know what the right answer is. Lila’s shy with new people some days, bold as anything other days. That gas station was small, it was daylight, there were only three other people there the whole time she was inside. A different kid, a different neighborhood, a different time of day, and I’d never have done it. Last month, we passed that same gas station on the way home from a day trip, and I let Lila go in alone again, and I still stood in the parking lot by the car checking the window every two seconds. It was fine, both times.
But I still lie awake sometimes, late at night, and think what if I’m wrong? What if I give her too much freedom too fast, or not enough? There’s no manual for this stuff. It’s just a bunch of tiny, stupid little decisions you make when you have to pee really bad and your kid wants a blue Gatorade. No one gives you a prize for getting it right, and no one tar and feathers you if you get it wrong. Most of the time, the kid just gets their drink, you get a few more gray hairs, and you move on to the next dumb decision to overthink. (Word count: 1128)
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