My 17-year-old daughter just climbed into a tiny yellow summer car filled with big scruffy summer boys, wearing a wee brown bikini that used to be mine. A quarter century ago, or more, I wore that handful of fabric on a handful of hot days and worried about everything.

She seems worried about nothing. She’s bright and perky, small and curvy, long legs chasing summer, auburn hair tumbling wild — she’s so brain rattlingly gorgeous that I’m in a muddle.

Yes, she’s gorgeous.

And she’s almost naked. How did this happen?! I didn’t feel almost naked when I pranced around in triangles all those years ago, but — let me tell you — she is almost naked!

Can I let a gorgeous, nearly naked teenager run around in cars with boys? Do I have any power at all?

Is this going to be okay?!

They seem like nice boys, but — I’m sorry. I’m the mother of three boys, all past their teens and I know with white hot conviction that a cluster of 17-year-old boys is a clusterfuck of mess in so many ways that language is failing me.

My husband shrugged and said, “They seem like smart, nice boys who are into sex, drugs, and rock and roll — but they don’t seem like criminals.”

Then he giggled.

Deep breath.

She’s a smart girl. She’s a sweet, strong girl and she’s capable of being a tough girl, if the need arises. She knows every lecture from the modern parenting handbook, chapter and verse. She’s navigated her way through bad choices and sticky moments and the lines of communication seem fairly flowing. We talk about all the things I’d rather not talk about. She is mature for her age (whatever that means) and she’s thoughtful.

She has a boyfriend. He’s a very nice boy. They are intelligent and kind, relaxed and confident together. This, I think, is a good thing. Hope springs eternal.

But she’s the baby — my baby. This fact will not change, so perhaps I must. I must let go, one joint of one finger at a time, free this little wild thing so that she can learn it, earn it — her life.

Her own big messy life. She must build it, or bump into it, without the clasping and grasping of her panicked mother — the girl who once frolicked in tiny triangles of summer, stared down the hungry eyes of 17-year-old boys, now a mother to this new girl, this summer girl, this gorgeous laughing girl.

I must find a way to let go without dropping her.