A Mother’s Ode to Eighteen Years: Letting Go with Love and No Regrets

Eighteen years ago, on a chilly March day, after what felt like an eternity of labor, I had the profound privilege of meeting one of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever known. He wasn’t even seven pounds, a tiny bundle with an explosion of vibrant red hair. From that moment forward, a piece of my heart took up residence outside my own body. I had never experienced such overwhelming joy, such profound vulnerability.

Now, that small boy is a young man of eighteen, still sporting that untamed mop of red hair he stubbornly refuses to cut. Eighteen years. A lifetime compressed into a blink. Looking back, I know I made mistakes, as all parents do. I’ve had my share of both triumphs and missteps. Yet, incredibly, as I stand on the precipice of this new chapter, I find myself with remarkably few regrets. (Though with three younger siblings still at home, there’s still plenty of opportunity for more!)

When my son was younger, I stumbled across an essay by another mother on the occasion of her son’s eighteenth birthday. It was a poignant reflection, filled with a bittersweet mix of nostalgia and regret. She lamented how quickly the time had flown by, how she wished she had squeezed in more moments, read one more book, finished one more puzzle, watched one more movie.

Those words resonated deeply. I took them as a personal call to action. I vowed to parent my children, starting with my firstborn, in a way that minimized future regrets. Of course, I knew I would always yearn for more time, but I didn’t want to look back and lament a lack of presence, a lack of intention.

We live in an era where women are encouraged to pursue thriving careers, and I certainly value my own professional life. However, I made a conscious decision to prioritize being a mother. It was, and remains, my guiding principle.

The renowned psychologist and author Jordan Peterson eloquently captures the essence of this relationship: "Your kids want to have the best relationship with you that they possibly could have. Like they’re 100% on board with that idea. Way more than anyone you’ve ever met in your life. And that means you could have the best relationship with your children that you’ve ever had with anyone. That’s what they offer you. And it’s up to you to realize that."

I did realize it. I understood the immense potential for connection, the unique and irreplaceable bond between parent and child. And I didn’t want to squander it. I not only fulfilled the basic expectations of parenthood – providing for his needs and offering unconditional love – but I actively sought out opportunities to go the extra mile.

During his early years, I cherished the opportunity to homeschool him. We often squeezed in "one more book" or "a few more minutes" at the park, indulging in impromptu ice cream trips even if they disrupted the carefully planned dinner schedule. Every doctor’s appointment transformed into a chance for a quick lunch and a meaningful conversation. Every time he wandered downstairs, I would pull him into a hug, even as he began to tower over me, as he does now.

I stretched our budget to provide him with enriching experiences, opportunities that I believed were essential for his growth and development. I attended every single football game, even when his team’s win record was less than stellar. While I am naturally an early riser, I frequently stayed up late, ensuring he arrived home safely from work or an evening with friends. Parents of teenagers know that those late-night hours are often when they are most open, vulnerable, and willing to share their thoughts and feelings.

I consciously savored the everyday moments, practicing mindful presence. But parenting with a long-term perspective, with an eye toward minimizing future regrets, served me well. It challenged me to exceed my own limitations, reassuring my son of my unwavering support and dependability. It also allowed me to appreciate the unique and wonderful person he was becoming: thoughtful, fun, hardworking, and genuinely kind. He knows that my feelings for him extend beyond simple love; I genuinely like him as a person.

When I unexpectedly became pregnant at the age of 25, I didn’t initially experience joy, but rather anxiety and fear. I envisioned dedicating myself to a career in politics, but I felt both financially constrained and ethically opposed to entrusting my son’s upbringing to a caregiver. I made the deliberate choice to stay home with him, and later, his siblings. I homeschooled for several years, fitting work into the margins of the day, rather than structuring my life around it.

The tension between these two competing roles – the demands of a career and the all-consuming responsibilities of raising children – has fueled a decades-long debate among women. Many women are delaying childbirth, some are choosing not to have children at all, and others ultimately regret that decision.

Life is undeniably more expensive than ever before. I understand why women feel compelled to acquire advanced degrees and pursue lucrative careers, especially as women are surpassing men in academic achievement. The choice between financial security and staying home with children is a difficult one.

However, I have no regrets about having children young and prioritizing their upbringing. I deliberately maintained a connection to both worlds – career and motherhood – not only because it proved beneficial in the long run, but also because I craved the intellectual stimulation and financial independence that work provided.

Furthermore, I knew that when my firstborn reached adulthood, I would regret filling my memories with work, travel, and hefty paychecks rather than football games, shooting range trips, and lazy days at the lake. I certainly made mistakes along the way. My son could probably provide a detailed list if asked. But dedicating myself wholeheartedly to parenthood is not one of them.

My son’s eighteenth birthday marks a significant milestone for him, but it is also a rite of passage for me. I have never before been the mother of an adult, let alone the mother of several teenagers simultaneously.

God willing, my firstborn has a long and fulfilling life ahead of him, filled with professional achievements and a loving family of his own. But I built my life around him. Do I regret that now? Absolutely not. I wouldn’t change a thing, and I would gladly embark on the same journey all over again.

Yet, it is still daunting. It is unsettling to acknowledge that my success as a parent hinges on my ability to release the child who made me a mother into the world, allowing him to navigate the complexities of adulthood. I will always be here, cheering him on and offering guidance when he seeks it. But my role will shift from active participant to supportive observer.

The ultimate goal of parenting is to foster independence. But achieving this goal means that my son will eventually call, text, and visit, rather than bursting through the front door for dinner, filling the house with his infectious laughter and boundless energy.

For him to live a vibrant and meaningful life, I must loosen the kite strings I have held so firmly, the strings that have provided him with safety, love, and recognition. It is a magnificent, heartbreaking paradox to succeed in this way – to bid farewell to my little boy and welcome the young man he has become, all in the span of a single birthday.