Friday night, my daughter put on her cheer uniform, told me “Goodbye”, and piled into a car with her friends to go a funeral.

Yes, you read that right. A funeral. Actually it was more a memorial service, but you get the idea.

Several days earlier, one of her fellow cheerleaders, a pretty, outgoing 18 year old girl who had just graduated from high school, went too fast around a curve and lost control of her car. The car sheared off a utility pole and rolled a couple of times, so you know that car had to be flying down that curvy, pothole filled road. Neither she nor her boyfriend, who was in the car with her, were wearing seatbelts. They were both dead at the scene before emergency personnel could even get there.

So now my daughter, my baby, has passed one of the most awful milestones of growing up: losing someone you were close to in a completely preventable accident. This one hits me a little harder as her mother since her friend has just gotten her license and Daughter is just starting to ride with cars with teen drivers. Gulp.

I remember doing stupid things when I was that age. I have gone around my fair share of curves too fast; the only reason I’m here to type this is due to the fact my first car was an extremely nimble and under-powered Toyota. I always wore my seat belt, but that can only take you so far. We lost a couple members of my class due to bad driving and DUI. We lost one of our cheerleaders because her bike had bad brakes and she was unable to stop before she rode out into traffic.

I’ve tried to explain to my daughter about how losing a kid is every parents’ worst nightmare and to please be careful. She thinks I’m a big nag, and she doesn’t understand why we don’t like her wandering about after dark by herself. She just wants to be FREE, and I want to lock her in a closet for a few more years until she understands that she’s mortal.

So off she goes, spreading her wings, while I sit home and try not to worry.

I remember how my sister and I used to tease my mom about waiting up for us when we were out. I could never sneak in after my curfew, because mom was always up reading a book until we were safely in the door. No matter what time it was, there she was, in the family room in her usual seat, peering over her glasses at us. “How did it go? Did you have fun?” she would cheerfully ask, and then toddle off to bed, secure in knowing her babies were safe for one more night.

I understand my mother a lot better these days.