Last June, on the eve of his 18th birthday, I looked at him and thought "nothing has really changed about him but everything is different". That is Eighteen, a contradiction of epic proportion. He still wants to be in his childhood with all of its carefree, limitless wonder but he cannot wait to grow up.
He loves our house and the home we've made in it and he cannot wait to leave it and reside farther away. He needs to show me he is an adult even at the times when his innocence and naiveté show me he is not.
18 is the year I couldn't imagine ever coming when he was born. It is the year I have watched looming as he's grown. It is the year that I will know him a little less and he will become a whole lot more. Most of his life from this point on will happen away from our family rather than within it. This is a bittersweet realization, but one I am most grateful for. He was safely in our nest, wrapped in our love and fortified with all the gifts we could give to make him stronger, more independent and full of happiness and self-satisfaction. He has thrived, he grew, and he flew.
Even he can't believe that he is 18. When I tell him he must register for the selective service and to vote, that I can no longer make decisions for him at the doctor, and that I won't call in sick for him at work, he pauses and is taken aback. Eighteen wants to be an adult, but not if it means more paperwork or inconvenience. Eighteen is full of confidence, physical strength, and the stamina of youth. He has never been more beautiful or more clean. His personal hygiene is impeccable. He never needs me to remind him to shower, brush his teeth or put on deodorant. He smells good all.the.time.
He rinses his dishes and sometimes even loads the dishwasher himself. He rarely leaves a mess in the house and cleans out my car after he has borrowed it. He still throws every article of dirty laundry including wet bath towels on the floor of the bathroom. He has been told a billion times not to do that and fearing it will be a lifelong habit, I remind him again. He wonders why I do this, and so do I. There must be a time when he will have heard it enough, but how will I know when that is?
Eighteen thinks the drinking age should be 18. I am the bearer of bad news. Eighteen thinks he does not need a curfew. I bear more bad news. Eighteen wants to spend every spare minute of his time with his girlfriend. He dreads the day when he and his friends will leave for college. He tells me how much he will miss her, how much their closeness has meant to him, and how he hopes it will stay this way forever. I am indebted to these wonderful young people who have taught my son so much about loyalty, trust, companionship and love. I ignore the lump in my throat and do not tell him that I feel the exact same way about him. He has been surrounded by people who have known and loved him his whole life. He knows how lucky he is. He is even starting to appreciate it.
18 is still living in our house. I can tell Eighteen what to do and what not to do, until he leaves for college. That would be foolish though, wouldn't it? We are on a trial run now for adulthood, so I let him make most of his own decisions and step in only when I cannot help myself. I try not to treat him like the momma's boy he no longer is, he tries not to act like the sarcastic teenager he once was. Most of the time we are both successful, sometimes we aren't. We look at each other and laugh. When he is unhappy, he reminds me that soon he will be gone and that I won't be able to tell him what to do any longer. Eighteen tells me this both to remind me of his need for independence and to hurt me a little bit. In getting ready to leave, some small part of him is hurting too. When he defies me, I can see that my means of control have slipped away. I am depleted of all my tricks, my bribes, my pleas. He knows them all.
Eighteen wants to push his father, his brother and I away and hold onto us at the same time. He forgets to tell us where he is and when he will be return, then runs through the door with a hug or a high five, plopping down next to us to ask about our day. He makes plans that don't include us, argues for the sake of it, and walks away from the dinner table too quickly. Yet, he brings his brother home from school every day and if he can't, he makes sure to tell us of his change in plans and confirm his brother has a ride. As the reality of him leaving confronts me, I remember that the obnoxious behavior is only temporary and that a markedly changed young man will be home on college break next year. The caring and responsible adult shows his face now and I get a glimpse of what he will become.
18 loves his dog. He is old enough to understand that this means he will someday suffer the death of him. He picks him up and talks to him. I hear him tell him that he will miss him next year. That he's a good boy and that he is so sweet. Eighteen knows that kids often get "the call" about their dogs when they are away at college and he doesn't want that call. 18 wants to play an endless game of "tug".
Eighteen is no longer simply living in time, but is now truly aware of it and feels it slipping away. While he has so much to look forward to, he understands for the first time that he now has so much to look back upon as well. 18 experiences that pain of knowing we feel as adults when a precious moment has passed and we can never really return to it. As he lets go of his childhood and readies himself to leave, he is fully aware of the fact that life has drawn a big red line at 18 and he is crossing over it. Eighteen leaves little marks on his mama's heart, like a stinging paper cut as the time winds down and I see we no longer have years together but rather months and weeks. I miss him before he is even gone. I will be sad once he leaves. Eighteen is drifting slowly away toward graduation, and summer and loading up the car and then he will really be gone. I can do nothing about that except what I've always done. I can just help him on his way. I love you, Eighteen.
Adapted from Grown and Flown, 12/09/14 and dedicated to Samuel Willson Barsness
