As I’m on the verge of having another licensed driver in the house, the “car time” is becoming less and less. I think most parents of teenagers know what I’m talking about when I say “car time,” but just in case you don’t, “car time” is when due to practices/rehearsals/tournaments/etc. that require longer drives than just the quick ride home, your tween/teen is trapped in the car with you and forced to make conversation.

While it is tempting to allow them to zone out on their electronic devices or let them sleep, and there are times when either can be allowed, depending on the level of decompression needed, it’s always a good idea to turn them off and just ride in silence.

Eventually, they won’t be able to stand the boredom, and they’ll just start talking. Since you’re not making direct eye contact with them, it’s sometimes easier to get into the more difficult conversations.

I discovered the joys of car time with A first as we spend some time traveling to swim meets that required overnight stays.

We really honed our technique on the back half of the 65-plus hours he was required to log before he took his driver’s test, and now I see that same pattern emerging with G.

On top of that, E recently started attending a swim program that requires a longer drive a few times a week, so we are now getting our time, too.

It’s key that it’s one-on-one time, because deep conversations can’t happen easily with the siblings around. A and I have come to rely on our car time so much that even though we’re mostly driving separately, if we happen to get home at around the same time, one of us will jump in the other’s vehicle and we’ll sit in the driveway and catch up.

Car time has become incredibly important to me because the harder conversations haven’t come easily to any of us in the last few years, and especially when they are driving, we seem to be able to control our emotions, and still get the words out.

The other night, E caught me off guard when she brought up the feeling of joy.

She wanted to talk about her bookcase. A recent addition to her room, and home to a variety of objects including beauty products, Lego sets, souvenirs, pictures, and even a few books, I’ve noticed that she frequently rearranges it, and that she also has a flair for setting a scene.

E has often expressed an interest in interior decorating as a possible career choice, and I viewed this little exercise as her practicing styling tips she’d picked up on social media.

She surprised me by telling me that her bookcase brings her joy, both being able to look across the room and seeing it, and then also rearranging it.

Of course, I immediately put on my shrink hat, taking away the joy element and distilling it all down into her bookshelves being small worlds where she controls everything and can make everything look just right, including our old family photos.

But E was determined to send the conversation in a different direction, and she then astutely observed that she feels that sometimes people look for joy in “too big a place” or “too big a thing.”

“You know Mom, sometimes, joy can just be a bookshelf.”

It occurred to me that in the last few years, I’ve essentially given up on joy.

It’s really not a feeling that I think I will ever wholeheartedly feel again. It always comes with a twist of sadness because Steve is not here to be joyful with, or a twinge of guilt because how can I even think of feeling joyful, or anger because things have no business being joyful without Steve in the world.

I suspect E knows the same feelings all too well and was tentatively sticking her toes in the water of trying to feel these things again.

I was quite happy to hear her talk about this, and probably in need of a reminder that I could do more to find something close to joy, if I really wanted to

Mostly, I was glad to hear that she can find those feelings again, and that she knew a few guaranteed ways to unleash joy. I know she really wanted me to tell her some of my own joyful findings, and as of right now, I don’t really have the answers she wants.

I guess the closest I come is when I know the kids are seeing the fruits of their labors. Watching A go through the college acceptance process, or watching E get ready for her dance recital, or seeing G get behind the wheel confidently. Watching the dogs hunt successfully, or even go through the motions and be unsuccessful brings the same sort of feeling.

I wish I could call it joy, but that’s not quite it. It’s a satisfaction that some things are proceeding almost the way they should have if that terrible thing had not happened.

I also made an agreement with E that I would also try to find more joy in small places and would report back during our upcoming car rides.

As we pulled into the driveway, I noticed that our lilac tree had finally started to blossom and as I walked across the yard, I could even smell it.

Again, it wasn’t joy, but it sure was a lovely way to end the evening.