Tomorrow my 17-year-old will be 18
Today is the last official day of childhood. Tomorrow my 17-year-old will be 18.
Am I making a big deal out of it? Hell yes. I earned it and so did she.
Coming into adulthood is no easy feat. Our brains are a morphing, reaching, expanding, crystallizing, uncontrollable mess as we enter adulthood—the somewhat imaginary line of independence. As a parent, I am in awe of my own stamina to bear the weight of anchoring a young person to this planet while they are taking shape. Many days, I am not sure if I am qualified, strong enough, or resilient enough to carry on. Other days, I’m in the flow with my daughter and it’s fun and light and easy peasy. But the winds change on a dime, and the jarring nature of adolescence is arduous.
So what now? Am I off the hook? Of course not. Because I love her, and the nature of motherly love is such that tomorrow, and the next day, will probably not look much different. I’ll still yell at her not to be late for school. I’ll still be annoyed that instead of doing laundry she has chosen to use every last towel in the house. I’ll still ask her if she took her vitamins and did her homework.
But as I said to her this morning, from here on out, it’s not a have to, it’s a want to and a get to.
I chose to become a mom. Throughout her life, I chose to get lost in the joy of many beautiful moments—of teaching, of connection, of the deep love and intimacy of parenthood. I wanted so very much to create good memories for her, of time in nature, of connection to diverse people, of expansive experiences—travel and dance, farmer’s markets and art galleries, cities and stars. I seized the day, over and over again, making time for adventures and spontaneity, doing my best to have healthy routines in between. I read to her, sang to her, kissed her boo boos. I loved her with everything I had and more. And when adolescence came I had to dig deep, and keep digging, and the carpe diem became hold on tight, someone forgot to install seatbelts on this wooden rollercoaster. I lost the joy. I lost the adventure. I lost the consciousness of parenting with purpose and intent. It was just survival. A storm.
And now we get to change.
I know as we both adjust to her ‘adulthood’ there will be things that fall away, and new ways of interacting that will emerge. I can honestly say that I am excited for the next chapter. All the raising we do as parents, all the hopes and the seeds we plant, will maybe, just maybe, start to come to fruition in the next few years as she buds and bursts into the next phases of her life.
Eighteen, no matter how much or how little changes on the day-to-day, is a rite of passage. It’s a chance to mark what has been, and a conscious opening to change. I am proud of us both for where we have been and how we came through. There was a lot less grace than I had hoped for, but in the big picture, we survived. We made it to today.
This morning I recorded multiple videos (“Vlogs, mom. They’re vlogs” – Adelle) of us saying goodbye to her childhood.
—Good morning, Adelle! It’s your last day as a child, how does it feel?
—Mom, I just woke up. I feel fine.
—Maybe we should do a ritual today, to honor this rite of passage? Like burn some stuff and whatnot?
—Mom, I probably won’t do any rituals, but this last day of being a child thing, I was just wondering if you can take me to get coffee… and can you pay for it?”
I protest the $50 of Starbucks we’ve spent in the last two days and then finally acquiesce.
—But seriously, what do you want to say to your child self as she enters the recesses of your memory?
—Bye girl!
Good enough for me. Bye, my sweet young girl. It’s time to fly.
