For most of my life the word trimester has meant nothing of any significance. That is to say, it’s meant what it means–three months–without any weight or feeling attached to it. But, of course, for the duration of growing a baby Callum, trimesters meant a lot. And now, nearly 18 years later, trimesters mean everything again. 

Trimester one: Your baby is the size of a grown man.

***

I’m printing off Callum’s senior year schedule, double checking classes for each tri to make sure everything looks right. Three trimesters and high school is done. Three trimesters and he will turn 18. Three trimesters and he starts to put one foot out the door, college coming quickly thereafter. In three trimesters, he will be an adult (albeit one without a fully formed prefrontal cortex for many years) and I will need to learn how to let go. I’m not good at that. I keep thinking of that line from Everybody Loves Raymond where he says his mother, who wants to know everything happening in his life and his every thought, would ride a q-tip into his brain if she could. I say to Matthew, “I think I’m going to start crying, and then cry for the next 9 months, and then cry for the next four years, and then cry every day after that for the rest of my life.” 

“At least you have a plan,” Matthew says. 

***

It’s MEA break and we’re going on a college visit. I am still hours away from being diagnosed with walking pneumonia and bronchitis at urgent care–I should be going to urgent care today instead of tomorrow–but there is no world where I miss this visit. We drive through a surreal fog, literally the densest fog any of us have experienced. I am so sick I can hardly think straight (don’t worry, Matthew is driving), but god damn it, I will fake it till I make it on this trip. We get settled at the school, Callum has a good conversation with the admissions director, and before we even leave the ballroom for the tour he gets a text that he’s been accepted. I joke to Callum that this school looks good–maybe I’ll apply and can be his roommate. I watch him take in all the sights and information and want to stamp my foot, jealous and angry. This isn’t fair. He’s going to leave me and experience all of this and have a life all his own? And while I am jealous, I’m not actually angry. I’m excited. 

Later, we drop him off at his best friend’s dorm. Instead of them staying there, he texts me in the evening saying they’re going back to Phoenix’s parents’ house in Eagan. Her car has a spare tire on it. They’re taking back roads, turning a 45 minute drive into a two hour journey. He texts me from a Taco Bell in Hastings. “Whoa, we’re halfway there. Whoooo-oooa driving on a spare.” 

I show it to Matthew, laughing. “I don’t get it,” he says. 

“Sing it to ‘Livin’ on a Prayer,’” I tell him. 

My brain is trying to process the events of the day–the tour, the details, the acceptance to college. I want him by me so I can ask him to tell me every thought he’s having about it all. I’m glad he’s having the adventures he should be having. But I wish they were headed back to our house, so I could eavesdrop on their laughing and know he’s tucked just downstairs from me. 

***

My brother is visiting. He and Callum are peas in a pod. After they go off on a comics mission in Uptown, they’re sitting in the living room. “Are you having a graduation party?” Ryan asks Cal. “He doesn’t even want to walk at graduation,” I say. Ryan tells Callum, who has adamantly told us he will not walk, that he should do it. 

“Look,” he says, “it’s stupid bullshit and your mom and I didn’t want to do it either, but we had no choice. It’s just one of those things you should do for the people in your life. Grandma would like it.” 

I pipe up, “I would like. I’ve worked hard to get you to this point.” 

Callum narrows his eyes at us and says, “Maybe I’ll do it. For Gran.”

***

I’m downstairs cleaning his lair while he’s gone and thinking of when he moves out. This space will not need cleaning. It will just always be clean. No infinite string cheese wrappers and Monster cans. It will be quiet. No metal music carrying up the stairs, no yelling into the mic as he plays video games. My god, I think. I’ll be able to open all the blinds–no more teenager cave! Then, just as quickly as I think of the upsides, I find I’m quietly singing to myself “It’s a Motherfucker.” My internal voice chides me for being so melodramatic. That song is about loss. But leaving is loss. Growing up is loss. Life is a series of loss, of letting go and hanging on, sometimes both at the same time, to varying degrees. This is how life goes. But I kind of hate it. 

***

It’s November and Callum and his new person are watching Heathers.

“Oh my god, I love this movie,” I say. 

“Oh, you’ve seen it?” 

God. Remember being a teenager and thinking YOU ALONE have discovered everything cool and interesting? 

“Only a million times,” I say, making myself go back upstairs rather than snuggle in next to them and reciting the entire movie out loud. 

***

The first trimester ends in early December. 

“One-third of the way through senior year,” I cheerfully tell Callum, trying to keep him motivated to continue having a great year. 

To myself I think, Fuck. One-third of the way through senior year.