The final first day of childhood schooling is here. I use the term “childhood” loosely because anyone who has recently walked the bustling high school corridors knows these aren’t little kids neatly lined up making silly gestures. Yet, it’s still a structured environment with rules and supervision—complete with a principal, detentions, bells, and hall passes. This is a far cry from the independence he will soon enjoy in college. Am I prepared for his senior year? For the last school dance, the final sports team, the last athletic banquet, senior breakfast, award ceremonies, and finally, that iconic cap and gown? Is he ready?
I’m starting to think he is, both mentally and physically, which is both thrilling and terrifying. I believe we’ve made it through the worst of puberty. The awkwardness has been replaced by a young man who confidently speaks in public, no longer needs reminders to shower or shave, and is demonstrating a level of independence I never anticipated. This summer, he will even land his first job. The mood swings that once ruled our lives have diminished, and discussions that once centered around silly topics have evolved into thoughtful debates about whether this country is prepared for a female president. It’s clear the time has come for me to begin the gradual process of letting go, so that when he walks across that graduation stage in a year, I won’t dissolve into a puddle of tears. Deep breath.
The Challenge of Letting Go
Of all the challenging parenting phases—from teething to sleepless nights, toddler tantrums to the angst of tweens and teens—none will be as tough as this impending letting-go stage. Just saying it sends a shiver down my spine. Some days, I look past his deepening voice and stubbly chin and see the little boy who once played with toy trains. Do I really have to send him out into the big, scary world? Unfortunately, yes. I must. Just as my mother did when she left me at college at 17, back in the days before cell phones, email, or texting. I remember the single payphone down the hall and the anxiety of dialing home collect. How she managed to leave me there still baffles me. But she did, and soon, I will too.
Parents of my generation, and those a bit younger, embraced helicopter parenting. From the moment our children entered the world, we held on tight and haven’t let go since. We were the pioneers of attachment parenting, wearing our babies in simple navy carriers long before baby-wearing became trendy. We advocated for extended breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and the rise of organic baby food, ushering in a generation of infants glued to screens watching educational shows.
We did cooperative preschools, walked our toddlers to class, and met them at the end of the day. We’ve been present at every game, lesson, recital, and school event. Our children have likely been the most protected and monitored in history. It feels like our sole mission has been to shield, nurture, and support them at every turn. And now, in just over a year, I’m expected to drop him off at the dorm steps and drive away? Deep breath. But that’s precisely what I must do, earnestly, faithfully, and gracefully.
A Lesson from Nature
Every spring, a mother dove builds her nest on my porch. I observe her and her mate as they diligently guard their young, taking turns watching over them through rain or shine. Her instinct, will, faith, and strength keep her vigilant. She never flinches in her duty, until one day, she ventures out to find food. At first, she is gone only a few moments, but then she extends her absences. Hours pass, and eventually, a day goes by. The hatchlings peek over the edge of the nest, contemplating their next move. I imagine them wondering, “Will she return? Is it time for us to fly? Are we ready?”
They will fly. She knows they will. Instinct, will, faith, and strength guide her, reminding her they can soar. A few days later, I check the nest only to find it empty. They have indeed grown and taken to the sky. Mama dove has let them go with grace and determination.
In just over a year, I can only hope to embody the same courage as that mother dove when I leave my first hatchling at the dorm. It will require small, incremental steps of letting go throughout his senior year, which I hope will bolster my confidence and remind me that pushing him out of the nest doesn’t mean I have to fly alongside him. It simply signifies that I’ve done my job well enough for him to take flight independently, and for that, this mama bird will feel immense pride rather than sorrow. And she will. I will. Earnestly, faithfully, and gracefully, I will.
Further Reading
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Summary
As the end of junior year approaches, a mother reflects on the bittersweet journey of parenting, recognizing the need to let go as her son prepares for independence. She draws parallels between her experience and a mother dove who courageously allows her young to fly. Ultimately, she aims to embrace the transition with pride rather than sadness.