It’s a monumental month in my tiny corner of the world. Two reasons. First, I turn a milestone age with a big fat zero in it. I’m entirely grateful but not quite ready to see the full number in print here. That’s all I’m going to say about that. Secondly, this is also the month my first-born crosses the legal threshold into adulthood.

Adulthood.

Photo courtesy Christopher Belocha on Unsplash

It’s an exciting time, especially for her as she imagines snippets of independence and new experiences at a college campus next fall. I’m guessing some of those snippets involve:

-Decorating her side of a dorm room with a new comforter and white lights.

-Walking to classes (sometimes only two in a day!) with the fashionable black backpack she got for Christmas.

-Stopping in at the student center coffee shop for a turtle-mocha-to-go.

-Taking the city bus to the mall for study breaks.

-Working out at the campus fitness center.

-Eating meals whenever she wants with a plethora of options.

-Meeting all kinds of new people through clubs and intramurals.

-Picturing herself in a career.

-Maybe studying abroad.

I’m over-the-moon about all the new opportunities ahead for her. But sometimes for the mama, excitement gets overshadowed with angst.

Last August I asked a friend who already survived her first-born’s departure to college, “How did you get yourself to drop him off and drive away?” She wisely replied, “Do yourself a favor and start letting go now little-by-little.”

I took her advice to heart. It’s only January and I’ve already worked through a million little letting go’s. For example:

-When I stood from afar watching her pose for her grad photos.

-When I ordered her last yearbook and she ordered her cap and gown.

-Every time I see her walk down the stairs carrying her own basket of laundry.

-When I filled her and her brother’s and sister’s shoes with candy and small gifts for our family’s annual St. Nicholas tradition (yes I still do that). It suddenly hit me: next year there will only be two shoes.

-Every time the garage door opens letting me know she’s home safe. How will I know next year?

-When she twists her hair up into a bun and whips up a batch of late night cookies as she often does. Who is going to make me late-night cookies (not to mention the dough) after she leaves?

-When she stands at the kitchen counter sifting through the day’s mail, looking to see if any of them are addressed to her. I silently promise to send her old-fashioned, stamped letters like my mom used to send me.

-When she does stuff that pushes my buttons. Like commenting on my driving from the passenger seat, leaving empty water bottles by the couch, and quarreling with her sister over trivial things. I might not miss that sort of ruckus so much. But, then again, I probably will . . .

Like balloons released one-by-one into the sky, I’m trying to let go little-by-little during these moments.

I really had no clue just how quickly this 18-year journey would go while writing in my journal on her first birthday.

Here’s an excerpt:

Jan 31, 2002

There she is, my birthday girl, all 2 feet, 4 inches standing in her crib in her purple, footed jammies. (Sock monkey too.) Even though it’s still an hour before sunrise and I look like I’ve been run over by a bus {probably more like an 84-ton guerrilla warfare tank], she bounces and twists and shrieks with a six-toothed grin from ear to ear at the sight of me.

“Well, good morning my little bright-eyed, one-year-old ragamuffin,” I say sluggishly as I try to recover from being yanked out of REM sleep by her high-pitched bellowing. I reach in, scoop her up, and pull her in close for a big smooch. I admit I did a happy dance last night in the kitchen holding Oreos in one hand and a glass of Merlot in the other when she finally fell asleep. But it’s a new day. I inhale her scent. Part Johnson’s baby lotion. Part soggy diaper. And all my insides once again swirl and melt with the most magical and pure love I’ve ever known. I missed her while I was sleeping.

Let’s face it. If I missed a soggy-diapered, high-pitched bellowing ragamuffin while I was sleeping, no bit of wise, well-intentioned advice is ever going to make it easier for me to drive away as my children cross into their various thresholds of independence. Legal guardianship may be temporary, but a mother’s abiding love and protective instincts are fierce and infinite.

Infinite.

Oh boy, if this is gonna go on for infinity, that’s gonna add up to a lot of little letting go’s.

I’m Julie Jo Severson, mom to three teens, freelance writer, editor, and co-author of HERE IN THE MIDDLE: Stories of Love, Loss, and Connection from the Ones Sandwiched in Between. 

This blog, Carvings on a Desk, is where I reconnect with my own voice swirling around in the middle. Read other recent stories.

Subscribe and receive the occasional stories in your inbox.