Pollyanna Rides Shotgun

Apparently I am now the Official Driver of Summer.

School is almost out, the evenings stay light until practically bedtime, and suddenly my calendar is full of soccer pickups, middle school drop offs, entrepreneurial ventures, and emergency snack runs.

And honestly? I love it.

Each grandchild has their own style. Their own rhythm. Their own agenda for our “special time” together. I know this because they actually wrote it in my birthday cards this year — they like our one-on-one time in the car.

Which melted me into a small grandmother puddle.

One grandson is an entrepreneur. I recently drove him to a friend’s house so they could hold a yard sale of clothes. Ninth graders now apparently run resale businesses with more confidence than most adults I know.

Another spends an astonishing amount of time making his hair look like he just rolled out of bed after sleeping under a bridge. This apparently requires products, careful fluffing, and deep concentration.

One asked to borrow earrings.

Another wanted mascara for his “almost mustache.”

I said no to sharing mascara but admired the commitment to personal grooming.

The youngest — now somehow in middle school, which seems biologically impossible — is wonderfully nostalgic. He likes to go through my jewelry box and ask where each piece came from. Not because it’s valuable. Because it has a story.

“That was Grandma’s.”
“I bought that on a trip.”
“Your grandfather liked those earrings.”
“I wore that to your mother’s graduation.”

I only wear earrings these days, but apparently I have become a tiny traveling museum of family history.

And every morning on the drive to school, I learn something new:

middle school politics,
new slang,
sports drama,
who likes whom,
teacher opinions,
strange YouTube trends,
and the endlessly evolving rules of teenage existence.

It keeps me connected to becoming instead of just remembering.

Maybe that’s one reason I’ve become so protective of optimism as I get older.

Not fake optimism. Not “good vibes only.” Real optimism. The kind that notices delight when it appears:

a funny conversation,
a shared iced coffee,
a kid who trusts you enough to ramble,
a summer evening drive with the windows cracked.

At this stage of life, I find myself drawn toward people who leave me feeling lighter instead of heavier. More curious instead of more exhausted.

Maybe that makes me a Pollyanna.

Honestly? I’ll take it.

Because there are worse things than finding joy in mascara mustaches, chaotic hair, yard sales, and middle school carpool confessions.