November 25th, 2024

Every year since my boys were toddlers, I have written each of them a letter on their birthdays and at Christmas. Generally, my words paint a snapshot of their lives at that particular moment in time—their likes, hobbies, struggles, and successes. I also add a little nugget of advice—something I hope resonates when they finally read these letters in their young adulthood. Occasionally, an additional letter feels necessary when an extraordinary moment calls to be documented—Covid, for example, their first heartbreak, or high school graduation.

In truth, I’m not sure when I will give the boys their collection of letters. If I had daughters, I might have bound them in a book and gifted it to them on their twentieth birthday. However, having raised boys for the last eighteen years, I know without a doubt that if gifted too soon, my words of wisdom will get tossed in the backseat of their dirty trucks—amongst empty Gatorade bottles, soccer balls, and food wrappers—to be unread and lost forever. I trust that I’ll know then the time is right.

My goal was to continue writing until each child turned eighteen. My oldest crossed that milestone a few months ago and I am about to write the last letter to him this holiday season.

Since his high school graduation, my son has been immersed in the trials and tribulations of exploring how he wants to live his adult life. Navigating the ups and downs with as much grace as he can muster, he is learning to juggle the demands of working full time with his desire to have a social life and squeeze in hobbies. Needless to say, he is rarely home.

Lying in bed one night, his absence swept over me like a tidal wave and I was overcome with a myriad of emotions. Pride, sorrow, love, and mourning. Parenting a young adult is a joyful experience but a bitter sweet one. You become a passenger on the journey, giving up the driver’s seat for the rest of your child’s life. With complete honesty, I can say that I adored every minute of raising my son. With his ADHD, zest for life, and adventurous nature, he most definitely gave me a run for my money. There were moments when it was hard to be his mama, to grant him the freedom he so desperately desired. However, that kid brought me so much joy, so much laughter, and so much awe. I miss him crawling into my bed in the mornings. I miss making forts in the living room. I miss baking together in the kitchen. Those days are gone.

As he walked through our front door the next day, I stood back to take in the man I had raised. His presence was strong and gentle, silly and kind. He plopped down on the couch beside me and we spent the next fifteen minutes catching up. The joy, the laughter, the awe came rushing back. What a privilege it is to witness him living his own life--loving a young woman, discovering his own grit, establishing priorities, and laying the foundation for his future.

As I sit down to write the final letter to my son, I have so much to say—words of affirmation, life advice, nostalgic sentiments. But not one word will carry the weight of sorrow. Only words of love and excitement will spill onto the page. For, after one good cry and one good laugh, I’ve remembered what it all truly boils down to. He will always be my baby—all six feet of him. And, no matter where he goes or what he does, he will forever own a piece of my heart.