Sixteen

It is October, which means it is officially Aschermann Birthday Season. And this year, there is a big one on the horizon: Milo turns 16.

Sixteen feels different.

My oldest is pulling away in all the ways he is supposed to. His friends matter more. Our opinions matter a little less. His world is getting bigger, while the part of it that belongs to us seems to be getting smaller.

It is exactly what you spend all those years raising them to do, become independent, think for themselves, build a life that is their own. And yet, when it actually starts happening, there is a strange ache to it.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about this in-between place. He is still very much ours, still living under our roof, still needing us in ways he probably doesn’t always want to admit. But there is also this unmistakable feeling that one foot is already out the door.

When something feels big, I write. So I wrote.

Sixteen

They pull away. 

It’s natural.

You had them for sixteen years,
and then, somehow,
they are still right here
with one foot already out the door.

You hope your impact sticks,
while praying they become entirely their own person.

You want their respect.
But if you’re being truthful,
you want them to admire you, too.

And somewhere along the way,
you realize
you have started to admire them.

You see pieces of yourself, your family
pieces of the child they were,
and glimpses of someone
you are only beginning to know.

You know this part is coming to an end.
Not motherhood.
Not your place in their life.
Just this version of it.

Enjoy it.

Witness it.
Hold it close,
but don’t strangle it trying to make it stay.

There was a past.
It was beautiful.

This is the present
the space between holding on
and letting go.

The future will be different.
but hopefully just as tender.