As we approach the final first day of our child’s high school journey, the term “childhood” feels a bit of a stretch. Anyone who has wandered the corridors of a high school recently knows that these are not mere children lining up in neat rows, fingers forming the classic “SH!” symbol. Yet, this environment remains structured and managed, complete with rules, a principal, detentions, bells, and hall passes. It’s a far cry from the freedom that awaits him in college. Am I prepared for his last year of school? For the final dance, the last sports season, the last athletic banquet, senior breakfast, award ceremonies, and ultimately, the cap and gown? Is he ready?
Surprisingly, I think he is—both mentally and physically—and that realization is a mix of awe and anxiety. We seem to have survived the tumultuous waves of puberty. The awkwardness has transformed into the emergence of a young man who confidently engages in public speaking, takes personal hygiene seriously, and exhibits an independence that catches me off guard. This summer, he’ll even step into his first job. The days of erratic mood swings are dwindling, replaced with thoughtful conversations about significant issues, such as whether our nation is prepared for a female president.
Thus, the moment has arrived for me to begin the gradual process of letting go. I must prepare myself so that when he walks across that stage in his cap and gown next year, I won’t dissolve into a puddle of tears. Just saying “letting go” sends shivers down my spine. Some days, I still see the little boy who once pushed Thomas the Train along a track, but the reality is, I must release him into the vast world beyond our front door. My mother did it with me when I left for college at 17, a time devoid of cell phones, email, or texting. Back then, there was just one payphone at the end of the hall. I remember the collect calls home. How my mother managed to leave me there, standing on the dorm steps as she drove away, is beyond me. But she did, and soon, I will, too.
Parents of my generation—along with those who are a bit younger—have embraced what some call “helicopter parenting.” From the moment our children entered the world, we clung to them tightly, never letting go. We pioneered attachment parenting, wearing our babies in navy Baby Bjorns before it became trendy. We practiced extended breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and were the first to demand organic baby food. We ushered in the era of six-month-olds engrossed in Baby Einstein programs.
We’ve done everything from cooperative preschooling to walking our five-year-olds to their classroom doors and being there for pick-up. We haven’t missed a single game, match, lesson, performance, or school event. We’ve rocked, snuggled, hovered, and watched over them with unwavering vigilance. They’ve probably been the most safeguarded kids in history. Our parental mission has always been to protect, nurture, encourage, and be present. And now, in just over a year, I’m expected to drop him off at the dorm and drive away? Deep breath. Yes, that’s exactly what I need to do, and I must approach it with sincerity, faith, and grace.
For the past several springs, a mother dove has chosen my front porch as a nesting site. I’ve observed her and her partner, day after day, regardless of the weather, taking turns to guard their young. Instinct, determination, faith, and strength keep her there, never faltering in her watch. But eventually, she leaves—first for just a few minutes to find food, then for longer stretches, hours passing, until she’s gone an entire day. The hatchlings peer over the edge of their nest, wondering, “Is she coming back? Can we leave now? Are we ready? Can we fly?”
And they will. She knows they will. Instinct, will, faith, and strength assure her of it. A few days later, I check the nest, only to find it empty. They have indeed grown and soared into the world. That mother dove has let them go with earnestness, faith, and grace.
In just over a year, I aspire to embody that same courage as I leave my first little hatchling on the dorm steps. Throughout his senior year, I’ll embrace small moments of letting go to build my confidence and faith, reminding me that pushing him out of the nest doesn’t mean I’m not there to support him in spirit. It simply signifies that I’ve prepared him to thrive on his own. And for that, this mama bird should feel pride, not sorrow. I will. Earnestly, faithfully, and gracefully, I will.
Summary
As the end of junior year approaches, a mother reflects on the bittersweet journey of letting go as her son prepares for college. She reminisces about the challenges of parenting, her own experiences leaving home, and the instinctive nature of nurturing. Drawing parallels with a mother dove, she hopes to embrace the letting-go process with grace and strength, ultimately recognizing that her son is ready to soar into his future with independence.
Keyphrase: letting go of children
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