Lately, I catch myself pausing to sneak glimpses of him.
As if maybe I could soak him up enough to make letting go next fall a little easier.
This good-natured, introspective son of mine—sandwiched between his two sisters—turns eighteen at the end of the month.
I can’t get used to how much older he’s starting to look, especially the past few months. His hair has grown out since his senior pictures were taken in the fall. I love how it now wings out a little on the sides when he wears a hat.
I couldn’t be more proud of this guy. He works hard and moves through life with integrity. And like every teenager in this country has been called to do, he has risen to the challenge during these exceedingly weird, uncertain, pandemicky times that will forever mark his final bow to the K-12 years.
I’m so truly excited about the countless and wonderful possibilities ahead for him. But I thought the count-down to his high school graduation would be emotionally easier on me than when I tumbled through it with his older sister two years ago. One would think by round two, I’d be a little more tough-skinned.
Sure, I may have gained some basic footwork and defense. But overall, I feel like a novice in a boxing ring getting jabbed and uppercut by mixed emotions all over again.
As I first held him in my arms all swaddled, tiny, and helpless while pledging to protect him for all eternity or at least until the very last glimmer of my ability, I was blissfully clueless to how deep and layered a mother’s attachment can grow.
• I was the first one to notice his dimples and the color of his eyes.
• I was the one who lingered at the preschool classroom door, scanning the room for potential playdate candidates.
• It was my side of the bed where he used to show up late at night after hearing monsters in his closet. “I don’t want to sleep by myself, mommy,” he’d say.
• I’m the one who couldn’t breathe as he went up for game-clinching turns-at-bat, free throws, and layups over the years.
• I’ve been the one replacing each previous school picture with the new one in the 8×10 frame on the living room shelf, year after year.
Recently I read through old journal entries where I preserved some cute little memories:
♦ Like that time I asked him “What do you want for lunch: noodles or a turkey sandwich?” He replied: “Um, probably a doughnut.”
♦ And the time I found him drawing a bunch of circles of all shapes, sizes, and colors. What are you working on?” I asked. “I’m making a circle family!” he said proudly as can be.
♦ And when he wrote his name on a bunch of ripped pieces of paper and then walked around the house like a stadium vendor selling peanuts to the crowds bellowing “Who wants my name? Who wants my name?”
♦ And oh my gosh, all those afternoons his sisters made him participate in their dance and gymnastic shows and baking competitions. He’s always been such a good sport.
The memories aren’t all cute, though.
Like that time a baseball smashed into his eye socket while at-bat during his first year on the high school team. With no medic on site, nobody else taking charge, my husband at home resting up between night shifts, I was the one who raced out to the field, asked him how many fingers I was holding up, helped him stand and walk off the field, drove him to the emergency room, and worried and prayed while they secured his blown-out orbital bone and stitched him back together.
Nope. That wasn’t cute at all.
Neither were any of the quieter, less noticeable letdowns. Those universal adolescent bummers we parents wish we could rush in, secure, and stitch back up but can’t. On the upside, those were the times he learned his own strength and resilience and gained empathy for others.
***
In the early days, experienced parents seemed to enjoy letting me know how fast the journey goes. “Savor every moment,” they’d say.
I’ve tried. I truly have.
But in the midst of trying to get little people to stay in bed; feeding the growing brood; diffusing arguments; schlepping everybody to where they needed to be; scheduling pediatric, dentist, orthodontist, dermatology, ophthalmology, and orthopedic appointments while also helping to care for my parents and holding on to some trace of a career, sometimes I just needed a hot minute to myself.
So, no. I didn’t savor every moment. And I probably missed a whole bunch of them while hiding in the pantry or floating off in my mind to simpler and sparklier places.
Besides, I’m not so sure we can fully appreciate that old adage “the days are long but the years are short” until we truly experience their childhood lifting up and away like a kite disappearing into the blue of the sky.
Not until the day we pause to sneak a glance of our high school senior sitting at his usual spot at the breakfast table, still half asleep eating a bowl of Reese’s Puffs, and we suddenly see a man’s profile emerging.
Life keeps moving madly full speed ahead. Whether I’m ready or not, he’s about to embark on a bright future that’s not mine to navigate. A realization that’s got me wiping my eyes a little as I write this, wishing I’d savored more of the moments.
But you can be sure as the sun sets in the west and rises in the east, I’ll be savoring them best I can between now and then and going forward.
To be clear, there’s still lots of parenting to do. I have plenty of advice yet to dish out. And no amount of days, months, years, miles, or facial hairs is going to stop me from shipping chocolate chip Insomnia cookies to his dorm room, texting him goofy memes, making him fried egg-avocado sandwiches when he returns home on breaks, and checking the daily weather app for all the places he goes.
Because being my children’s mom (and biggest fan) is a job I’ll never quit.
I’m Julie Jo Severson, mom to three, freelance journalist, editor, coauthor of Here in the Middle, and author of Secret Twin Cities: A Guide to the Weird, Wonderful, and Obscure. This blog, Carvings on a Desk, is where I reconnect with my own voice swirling around in the middle. Subscribe and receive the occasional stories in your inbox. Read other recent posts.
