Last week, my eldest child, Alex, packed up his soccer gear, a collection of worn socks, and his new laptop, leaving home for college. Those 18 years flew by faster than I ever expected. While it’s a shock to see my firstborn head off, witnessing his journey towards independence is a familiar experience. I fondly recall the milestones: his first steps, his first words, and that momentous day he boarded the school bus for kindergarten. Little did I know then that the real challenge of separation would emerge when Alex learned to ride a bike.
He was never enthusiastic about cycling, which meant I spent countless hours jogging beside him, gripping the back of his seat as he hollered, “Don’t let go!” in sheer panic. It became so daunting that I eventually handed the task to my sister while we were on vacation. Having taught three of her own kids, she assured me that her experience, combined with the flat beach terrain, would yield results. She was correct, but Alex still approached cycling with trepidation.
Upon returning home, I soon discovered he had regressed. A mix of tears, running alongside him, and the repetitive “Don’t let go!” mantra filled our ride. Finally, he found his confidence, circling me in the cul-de-sac, shouting, “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” I stood there, hands on my hips, panting, thinking how relieved I was that he had finally conquered his fear.
The next day, we ventured out again. He gripped his handlebars tightly, his brow furrowed, as we headed back to the cul-de-sac. After half an hour of circling, he expressed a desire to explore the neighborhood, and I readily agreed, pleased to see him taking a risk. Somehow, we found ourselves on a side street leading to a steep downhill. “Are you sure you want to go this way?” I asked, jogging beside him.
“Mom! I got it!” he replied, annoyance creeping into his tone. With that, he reached the top of the hill and took off. I blinked, and suddenly he was out of my reach. My mouth formed an “O” as I watched him zip away, crouched over his handlebars, his blue helmet bobbing above him, a blur of red bicycle darting through flecks of sunlight on the shaded road.
It would have been picturesque if not for the wobbling front wheel. I instinctively took a step forward, then bolted after him, but the bike trembled uncontrollably. Realizing I could not catch up, I stopped, fists clenched to my chest, holding my breath.
And that’s when it dawned on me. This is what parenting is: standing at the summit of that hill, witnessing my child growing smaller in the distance. It’s about faith—faith in grace, in my children, in what I’ve taught them. So, I watched him ride away, confronting my own helplessness and anxiety, trusting that he could manage the bike because it was his turn to steer.
When he reached the bottom, he stopped, basking in a patch of sunlight, turned, and raised his fist triumphantly. I clapped and smiled, relieved he was far enough away not to see me exhale deeply. Just as I settled down, he wanted to ride again and again. That’s when I learned another lesson: letting go is initially frightening, but with time, it becomes more manageable.
Since then, I’ve faced numerous heart-pounding moments of independence: allowing him to stay home alone, walk to the pool across a busy road, ride in cars with friends, and finally drive himself. While I wish I could say I’ve mastered the art of letting go, life continuously raises the stakes.
As he approached his high school graduation last spring, I could sense the preparation within me. When he grabbed the lunch his father made and stepped out the door in those final days, I suddenly perceived him as too grown-up. I envisioned him dining with friends in a bustling college hall or whipping up Ramen noodles in his dorm—Dad’s lunches faded into memory.
Now, that moment has come. After just one week at college, the only message I’ve received from Alex is a text reading, “College life,” accompanied by a photo of a microwavable container of macaroni and cheese. Clearly, he isn’t missing those ham sandwiches.
I hope college will be the ultimate solo journey for him—one I can’t run alongside, nor do I want to. Like that day in the cul-de-sac, I’m exhausted from the running, but that doesn’t lessen the emotional weight of his departure. I will miss deciphering his teenage grumbles in the mornings and our dinner conversations. I’ll worry about his academic progress and his safety at social events. But I must trust that when his bike wobbles, he can steady it. When he does, I know we’ll celebrate together, him turning from his sunny patch, fist raised high, while I cheer from my spot atop the hill.
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In summary, as we navigate the rollercoaster of parenting, each step toward independence comes with its own challenges and triumphs. We must learn to trust our children as they grow, allowing them to take the reins while we cheer from afar.
Keyphrase: Parenting journey
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