When you are in the midst of raising your kids, some days feel different than others.
I’ll admit, there were times I’d catch myself thinking, “I can’t wait until [insert milestone here]. Because my boys are exactly one year, two months, five days, eleven hours, and eighteen minutes apart, once the older boy would finish a phase, the younger would start, making everything feel like it took twice as long.
There were good times. There were not-so-good-times.
When the youngest turned eighteen, one month from his high school graduation, I counted down the days. As in I literally had a countdown on my phone.
He graduated, and I deemed myself retired. Sure, I’ll always be my kids’ mother, but I’d completed my contract.
Everyone tells you when the kids are small, “Don’t rush these years. It’ll be gone in the blink of an eye.” There’s more to it, the thing no one tells you: “So, be glad you are basically still in control. Once they are adults, you just have to sit back and wait until they need you.”
When I was thinking about writing this post in response to something regarding my youngest son, something hit me: I am also an adult child. Not too terribly long ago, my dad was asking me about some things in my life. Pointing out some details I had missed and should have considered. While I’m watching my adult children do this thing called life, struggling not to intervene, my parents are also doing the same thing.
*Cue ‘Circle of Life’ music*
The secret is out: if you have young children, hang in there. They will grow up. However, there is no such thing as retirement from parenting. It changes, but it doesn’t necessarily get easier.