My youngest child turned eighteen today and I wasn’t prepared for the wave of emotions that swept over me. The bittersweet reality is that my last child is now an adult. No more babies, no more young children—it’s a reality I’ve technically lived with for years. But something about your last child reaching adulthood hits differently. Parenting takes a lot of time and effort. The energy I’ve poured into nurturing and loving these human beings I brought into the world is daunting.
Parenting is truly a lifetime commitment. From the moment I first held that newborn in my arms, I’ve been on call 24/7, year after year. I think back to the days of constant activity—building Lego towers, reading bedtime stories, and roaring like dinosaurs. My primary goal was to keep them safe and teach them the lessons they’d need for life. Now, they’re all adults, over eighteen. It’s just another birthday, right? But somehow, it feels like so much more.
What I’ve realized is that this is a milestone for both my youngest son and for me. Do I now give myself permission to turn some of that intense focus inward? I hope so. This morning, I waited to work out just so I could give him a hug before school. I wrapped a piece of crumb cake for him, sang “Happy Birthday” as he grabbed his keys and rushed out the door.
The bittersweet reality now that my last child is an adult is that I’ll never fully get my heart back. They will always own a piece of it. And one day, when they have children of their own, I’ll somehow find another piece to give to my grandchildren. Today, I celebrate my son’s birthday, but in the quiet corners of my heart, I also grieve just a little. I accept and acknowledge that I’m no longer needed in the same way I once was.
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