I saw it happen to my friends’ kids, but still, I never thought it would happen to mine.

Overnight, he turned into a teenager-slash-young adult. Gone were my morning cuddles from a little boy who loved his family so much that weekend outings with mom and dad were something he eagerly anticipated. In his place, a much larger person suddenly arrived with little-to-no forewarning. And overnight, it seemed he’d learned everything about everything. Answers? He had plenty of them. Advice? He insisted he didn’t need it, even when we knew with every inch of our being that he certainly did. 

This newcomer with a familiar face kept odd hours, too. He watched movies until the early morning, slept until noon and when awake, kept his eyes glued to his cellphone. When he did look up briefly, it was only to wonder where the milk was (in the refrigerator, right in front of him, of course!), or to ask if you could kindly repeat what you’d said a minute ago. He’d been texting, Facebooking and playing a game on the phone, all at the same time, you see. He couldn’t be expected to pay attention to verbal instructions, too. 

My initiation to teenagerhood has been difficult to come to terms with, and the reason, in a nutshell, is that I miss my son. I guess I never realized how short his childhood would be, how fleeting were our Sunday excursions as a complete family. Today, he’d rather “hang” with friends than head out with his parents and siblings. He makes his own plans with confidence and initiative, easily assembling a group of buddies and arranging an activity they can enjoy together. 

Luckily for us, he keeps in touch. We get sporadic phone calls or texts with updates on where he’s at, when he’ll be back, and “Oh mom, what’s for dinner?” When the meal plan is unappealing, he’ll arrive home with a sandwich in his belly or another mom’s macaroni still decorating his chops. He’s independent, you see. In many ways, he doesn’t need us that much anymore.

On the one hand, I’m proud. Somehow my husband and I have managed to raise an outgoing, confident, intelligent young person who is excited about life, motivated to explore it and sufficiently responsible not to hurt himself in the process. But there are times when sadness clouds my pride. 

Where he once nestled by my side there’s a gaping hole, you see. He already has one foot out the front door, and the other will follow before long. He’s made it clear that after three more brief years of high school – time that will pass in the blink of an eye – he’s moving out. He has a world to explore, of course, and that’s hard to do when you’re home with mom and dad. I understand this. I was young once, too. Still, this is my boykie. I want him close so I can protect him, celebrate him and love him fiercely. And mostly so I can see him, if possible, every single day.

Those who’ve travelled this route warned me it would flash by in an instant. 

“Cherish this time,” they told me when he was a colicky baby, “it will flash by.” 

It was hard to believe them, back then, when sleepless nights were the new norm and caregiving had become a whole new career, one that absorbed every minute of the day.

Now, I believe. Having travelled those 15 years, I can testify first hand how astoundingly rapid the passage of time is, and how in what feels like a split second, a son transforms from child to man. There’s no taking back that time, only grasping fondly at the memories, being grateful for the time he still gives you and watching with amazement as he bounds into adulthood – much faster than his parents can keep up.