Nobody warns the mothers about the time.
Those hours and days that seem like they will never end.
The errands, the preschool drop-offs, outgrown shoes, skinned knees, play-dates, mac and cheese, playground woes, spilled milk, bad haircuts, and kindergarten projects made of beans and glitter. The hormones, driving lessons, AP tests, cramming for finals, outgrown jeans, messy rooms, mac and cheese, and sleeping until noon.
Endless time, years of it.
The time that passes so quickly…that slips through your fingers somewhere between diaper duty and senior awards night.
When they placed you in my arms all those years ago, you should have had a warning label.
Handle with care. Love unconditionally. Caution: will melt your heart.
Warning: Object in your arms will grow more quickly than it appears.
Eighteen years passes so very quickly.
Eighteen blinks later, you sit across the kitchen table from me… coffee cup in hand, reading the newspaper. This, this is what years of parenting lead to? A scruffy-faced young man with principles and ideals and morals and thoughts all his own? No longer to be shaped by my influence or advice?
This was exactly what I was supposed to do. I mothered, I cuddled, I talked and I listened.
And then I took a backseat.
I am so very proud of the young man you have become, and look forward to the years ahead as you grow and shape yourself even more into a young adult.
But this nagging feeling that there must be something I forgot to do with you still persists deep inside.
So forgive me if I invite you for an ice cream, pour you a cup of coffee, challenge you to a game of Scrabble, buy you a silly book, ask you about dinosaurs, offer you a ride on my shoulders or touch your thick wavy hair when I walk by.
I might not be finished with this mothering gig after all.