When my daughter, Bella, was three, we decided to put her into preschool. My son, Jacob, was five and in kindergarten at the time, and Bella wanted to be just like her big brother. I really didn’t think she was ready for school, but after days of her waking up early, getting dressed by herself, putting on a backpack, and crying when we dropped Jacob off and not her, we decided to give it a try. 

We chose a half-day program at the same school as Jacob. I was so scared when we went to drop her off. I thought she would cry, but instead, Bella went right in, gave her teacher a big hug, and then waved me goodbye. Half-day kids didn’t eat lunch at school, so I excitedly went to pick her up with plans to go on a picnic at the park, just us two, before her brother got out of school. But when I went in to sign her out, she began to cry. I thought it was because she missed me, but really, it was because she wanted to stay and eat with her new friends. In fact, she not only wanted to stay for lunch, she wanted to stay the entire day. It was then that I realized it wasn’t her that wasn’t ready for school, it was me! I left her the picnic basket full of goodies to share with her class and went into the registrar’s office to sign her up for full days.

Fast forward 14 years and not much has changed. Bella has grown into a strong, beautiful, independent young woman who recently committed to a college to attend in the fall. Unlike my son who goes to a local university that allows him to commute and live at home, Bella will be going away and living on campus. In between finishing up her last few high school classes, she now spends her time chatting online to potential new roommates and filling Pinterest boards with cool dorm room ideas. Thankfully, she shares it all with me, and while she’s the one who has to register for orientation, she wants me there in the room when she pushes submit. We high five and laugh each time she can check off a new student admission task, and then we both sigh. She sighs out of relief; I sigh because it is another reminder of my baby growing up. 

This isn’t my first rodeo. My son just turned 20. Even though I have traveled these roads before, the emotions feel new. There is just something so overwhelming beautiful about your child becoming an adult before your eyes. My heart all but burst with joy, gratitude, and pure excitement for them. And yet, this bursting heart feels an awful lot like a breaking one, too. You would think by now I would be used to the emotional roller coaster that comes with being a parent. Years packed with ups and downs, trials and successes, heartache and joy. I still can’t help but feel conflicted. I want them to grow up, yet I don’t. I want them to be independent and succeed on their own, yet I can’t let go. I want them to march forward, shoulders back, confident, ready to face whatever life throws at them, yet I am not ready to step completely out of their way. 

But here is the thing. This isn’t about me. The whole “my kids growing up” thing is about … my kids! Sure, I can feel nostalgic and even a little sad. But I can’t let my feelings get in the way of this incredible moment my kids are experiencing now. This is a new season, filled with hopes and promise, and that is exciting! I can choose to drag my feet in denial, but eventually my kids will grow tired of that attitude and just walk around me. I don’t want to be left behind like that. I want to be able to high five them, laugh together, and even sigh. And some things don’t have to completely change, either. I can still plan a picnic for my girl; I’ll just need to ask her first before I make all the plans. And the cool thing is now that she is older, she can even help make lunch for the picnic. Maybe embracing this new season won’t be so bad after all. Now, if someone could remind me of this on college dropoff day, I would really appreciate it!