It feels like last week I was counting how many days until my son started kindergarten. I couldn’t wait. Life would be easier. The $1200/month for his three days a week at childcare would be halved because now I’d only pay for his sister. The house would be quieter when I worked from home. A real part of me wanted him gone, gone, gone. Still, the first day he climbed aboard the big, yellow school bus headed to Spring Ridge Elementary School, I sobbed.

Seriously.

It was like someone punched me in the gut. My son beamed through the school bus window, confident and smug, as if to say, “Let’s get this party started.” The bus pulled away and he didn’t look back. With my three-year old daughter on my hip, I returned to my now emptier house, crying.

For me, motherhood has been equal parts, “Get these freaking kids out of my house. I want my life back,” and equal parts, “Oh my God! My babies, my babies, please don’t grow up so fast. I can’t be this old. I need more time.”

Here’s a reality. Young motherhood is hard. Newborns require round-the-clock attention; rambunctious toddlers are a handful, and little kids don’t give you a break. There are tons of mommy bloggers, lamenting these incredible hardships.

Please. Quiet. Let’s all laugh collectively. Those years are the easy part.

The shit hits the fan around fourteen and mothering reaches a new unimaginable level. No more dirty diapers, nursing problems, or play date disasters. Teenagers are hard. You still might not be sleeping through the night, but it’s for entirely different reasons. Parents grow suspiciously quiet. The truth is you begin to understand why the launching age is eighteen—because you are not quite sure you can survive a moment longer. Bad stuff happens. And we are not talking about it, which is okay. Certain things should be private. It’s called life.

As my son’s eighteen year demarcation between childhood and adulthood approaches, the push and pull toward independence has reached critical mass. We’re all being tested. Some days are good. Some days are bad. Others beautiful. It’s never boring.

Lately, I find myself in the pre-kindergarten anxiousness. I’ve been counting the months until my son leaves for college. We’re down to days. Part of me can’t wait for him to get out of here. I’m praying he stays out of trouble and doesn’t do anything really stupid before college. That he gets to start his life and make his own mistakes. And stays out of jail. But then there are moments when I look at the calendar and my heart squeezes. Or I pause at the picture of him getting his first haircut and I can’t breath.

Time. Must. Slow. Down.

May 5^th he turned eighteen. It’s a threat he’s been slinging for years. And it happened. The kid is an adult. If his warnings are true, I can expect he’ll have a tattoo, stay out all night, and never need any money from me again.

Last week at my son’s Senior Night before his lacrosse game, the older parents, I’m one of them now, stood at the gate waiting to be announced with our sons and to walk across Bulldog field for the last time. It was cold and windy and the moms huddled together making small talk.

“I wonder how they’re going to do?” a long time mom friend said. She was referencing the starting lineup because a star player was injured. With a lump in my throat, and before I realized what she meant, I said, “That’s a good question. What are they going to do?”

I wonder. I hope. I pray. The great big world is waiting for my son. I’ve done my best—most days. And I see my folly in counting the calendar. But it’s too late now. Those days have turned into years and we’re out of time. Part of me wishes he could stay. I hope he knows he can always come home.

But I’m ready for him to go.

***

Children have the unforgivable habit of growing up.
—Bjarne Reuter, Danish writer

Read the first three chapters of my novel, WHAT THE VALLEY KNOWS, HERE. I hope you love it enough to want to buy the book. Find it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Black Rose Writing. Happy reading!

“A taut, compelling family tale.” Kirkus Reviews

Till next time,
Heather 🙂