As I approached the final weeks of my first pregnancy, the nesting instinct finally kicked in—just like everyone said it would. I remember friends and family asking if I had experienced it yet, and I would casually reply, “Not yet.” But then, one morning, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I woke up with a burning desire to transform my chaotic home into a cozy sanctuary for my soon-to-arrive baby. The urge to nest was real, and I dove headfirst into it.
Strangely enough, the first task that compelled me was cleaning the front door of the house. I waddled outside, my baby bump making it a challenge to scrub the door properly. Yet, this door symbolized so much; it was the entrance to the world my child would soon explore, and I wanted it to be sparkling clean—a warm, inviting gateway to the joyful childhood that awaited him.
Fast forward to today, and my little one is on the brink of adulthood, preparing to leave for college. Oddly enough, I’m feeling the nesting instinct again, but in reverse this time. As he prepares to step through that now less-than-pristine front door, I feel this overwhelming need to restore the home to its former glory, to fill it with so much love and warmth that he might just want to stick around. It feels like my final push in parenting—a marathon nearing its end. I want to finish strong, to send him off with a heart full of cherished memories.
I find myself yelling less and hugging more. I feel the urge to care for him in ways that might seem counterproductive at his age. Sure, this is the time for him to learn independence, to tackle laundry, cook meals, and take on responsibilities. But then there’s that nagging thought—he’s still my baby. The real world can be harsh, and soon he’ll be diving into it without the safety net of my “mom” lifejacket.
As I grapple with the reality that my parenting years are almost over, I’m bombarded by vivid memories of my less-than-stellar moments as a mother. The guilt is suffocating. I recall those “I’ve had enough!” meltdowns, the times he saw me break down in tears, my unjust criticisms, and the moments when my patience ran out. I can’t help but wonder: Have I done enough? Did I complete the “Raise an Amazing Adult” assignment?
He may be nearing 18—an age society deems adulthood—but in my heart, he’ll always be my little one. I finally understand my own mother when she said, “My baby is having a baby!” We are eternally someone’s child, and with that comes a constant worry and a desire to make sure he never forgets his first home. That front door, now worn, will always be open for him to return.
When I was nesting for the first time, cleaning that door in anticipation of my baby, I was blissfully unaware of what lay ahead. Now, reflecting on the kind of mother I was and the adult he’s becoming, I realize that the worry is still just as fruitless as before and the outcome remains beyond my control.
It’s time to let go, to prepare for his departure. In the remaining days before he spreads his wings, I plan to fill this nest with love and positivity. I’ll focus less on regrets and more on the hope and joy of his future. No, my mothering days aren’t over just yet, but I feel like I’m coasting into this next chapter, ready to celebrate his journey into adulthood, even if it means that front door remains a bit dusty.