One of the worst possible jobs you can have while pregnant is being a children’s librarian doing multiple story times a week. Nothing but mothers who want to give you unsolicited advice about everything. Once it became obvious I was pregnant, lo those many years ago, they’d offer all kinds of tips. During my second trimester, a few moms who had babies MEGA early liked to coach me through just getting into trimester three and tell me survival rates and what nurse to ask for it if I had a premature baby. Thanks? 

Here we are again, 18 years later, focusing on getting through trimester two, this time of school. Survival rates? Not to be dramatic, but sometimes it feels slim. Come on, I think. One more trimester to go! 12 more weeks and then graduation! I keep a graduation countdown app on my phone and look at it often to remind myself that my baby just has 84 more days to go. It’s the opposite counting of what you do in gestational trimester two. Instead of noting how many weeks we are into things, I’m noting how many weeks there are to go. 

I have the same kind of mixed feelings as I did when pregnant. Then, toward the end, I counted down the weeks, eventually hoping he’d be early (he was, missing the amazing due date of 6/6/06. When people would ask if we knew what we were having, I liked to say that gender is a social construct–what we’re really interested in is will the baby have horns or hooves.) but also terrified what would happen once he was out in the world. Now, graduation is 3 days after his 18th birthday, but instead of just bringing him home from the hospital, I’m setting him free into the world. Not one where I’m at home hovering over him and fretting over his every breath, but one where I have to adjust to not being able to see his every move (but, let’s be real, still fretting over his every breath). A friend asked recently if I’m just going to cry and cry when he leaves, and while I will be supremely sad (for all the agony parenting has caused me, he is a supremely cool kid who has always been my best buddy), it’s less that I’m concerned about the sadness as I am the anxiety. And that’s on me. 

The hardest things I’m feeling right now are that I CAN learn to let go a little and let him live his life. I want him to have amazing adventures. I want him to go to college, to be his own person, to learn to stretch and grow on his own. But a lifelong anxiety disorder makes that very challenging. The real challenge is to work on that on my own and not put it all on him. I did not enjoy being pregnant at all. There are a ton of reasons why we only had one child, and one of them is that growing a person was not for me. But, he was safe inside me. And, sure, he’s been safe outside of me all this time. Also, I’ve never had to let go like I will have to. I am not good at new things.

The other day we sat around our dining room table with my best college friends and spouses, reminiscing about a post-college road trip out west that involved everyone at the table, in some way or another. Callum was interested in some of the details because he’ll be setting off on his own road trip out west right after graduation. Sometimes it’s hard to believe I’m this old, that some of these stories were so very long ago, and yet we remember every detail. It’s so exciting that Cal is about to make his own memories like this, memories of freedom and adventure and unplanned detours. That’s growing up. I want that for him. 

But. 

Also.

We spend our recent day off of school watching a movie about Norwegian black metal. Thanks to Callum, I know all the ins and outs of this scene, all the major players. We keep pausing the movie to talk about what liberties it seems like the movie is taking with the real story, for him to tell me more details, for me to point out what all the bad choices every single person in that scene made (I may be an aging punk, but I’m also a responsible mother). I needed to be working on an article that afternoon, but when he asked me to hang out, of course I said yes. My time with him is limited. I mean, it always has been, but I can feel it now. 

It’s the turning point now. It all feels real. I’ve paid deposits for things at college. I’ve created graduation cards. I’ve booked him a plane ticket for the day after graduation. It’s real. It’s all been real. It’s always been real. But this? This feels bigger than I can understand. Trimester one, done. Trimester two, done. I’m so excited for him.

But.

Also.