Eighteen.
My baby is eighteen — and I’m worried.
Not about him.
About me.
About the mom I have been to him.
I knew his birthday was coming. And yet, I’m somehow still surprised by it. It doesn’t seem possible that the time has passed so quickly and in such a blur. It is crazy to me to realize that he’s a senior in high school.
I can’t remember what year it was when he broke his collarbone playing football, and I can’t remember the name of his fourth-grade teacher.
But I can remember singing “You Are My Sunshine” to him to rock him to sleep. I also remember the first time he got a nosebleed, and we had to call the paramedics because it wouldn’t stop.
And I can remember every time I thought I messed up as a parent.
The times I yelled when I should have listened.
The times I said I didn’t have time to do something he wanted, mostly because I wasn’t in the mood for it.
When my protection instinct kicked in and I didn’t let him do something that would probably have been okay for him to experience.
Don’t get me wrong; these things were the exception, not the rule. But still, I sometimes replay them over and over and over in my head and feel ashamed.
