So here is my promise for this series—and to myself:
There is a moment in every mother’s life that she knows is coming, yet somehow never feels ready for. It doesn’t arrive with a bang or a dramatic announcement. It arrives quietly—usually in the car, or while folding laundry.
I will not make him feel guilty for growing up. I will not cry where he can see me (okay, maybe just once). And I will learn to love the fist bump, even while I miss the sticky, small hand in mine.
I raised this boy from a squalling, milky newborn. I cleaned his scraped knees. I sang him lullabies at 2 AM while the rest of the world slept. And now we communicate in knuckles.
For ten years, I was his sun. He orbited around me: my schedule, my voice, my hug at the end of a bad day. Now, slowly, he is building his own gravity.
But here’s what I’m discovering in Part 1 of this journey: his pulling away isn’t rejection. It’s the first draft of his independence.
