Is there anything scarier than watching your child pull out of the driveway? Twice in the same week I have watched my sons (19 and 16) drive away for journeys they were more than ready for, while I was a mess. My oldest drove back to college—a 12 hour trek with no stops—ahead of Icemaggedon on Sunday. My youngest drove to school this morning up a driveway and onto a highway with less than ideal conditions full of drivers with no experience driving in winter weather. Jesus take the wheel. The whole way. Every day.

The comeback joke in this house everytime someone has to do something that they don’t want to do, or that is inconvenient, or stressful, or embarrassing is “adulting is hard.”

The crazy thing is I’m doing so much more adulting than they are doing! Everytime I watch my sons do the mature thing, or the grown up thing, or the right thing—or the wrong thing, I sit on my hands and fight the urge to rescue. I always answer when the phone rings, or there is a question, or help is requested, but until that moment, I practicing “being, not doing.”

Parenting means learning to be with, not do for, and it gets harder not easier! Parenting big kids means asking in a respectful tone, accepting the response even when it isn’t what I want to hear, and treating my not quite grown kids as grown. I’m still teaching—how to pay bills, talk with a person at the bank, buy a plane ticket, car care, and curfews. I’m still advocating—did you talk with your teacher/professor/advisor? Do you need backup or can you handle it? Mostly, parenting involves answering my husband with “he said he could handle it,” and trusting that everything is fine.

It’s so weird being a parent to my teenagers. I still remember chafing at unnecessary rules and feeling that punishments were arbitrary. I’m not sure that’s what happened, but I remember how that felt. Possible there are differences between boys and girls. My current wardrobe fights revolve around collared shirts and wearing belts and haircuts. Car privileges revolve around speeding, communicating, and driving others. We are likely too permissive, but it has worked so far. Our boys are very different, but their love of liberty is the same. I feel like our leash is longer than some and likely shorter than many, but somehow we have been really fortunate to let the chain out slowly. It is more of a struggle with our younger son because he has always seen his brother with more freedom. The age difference just doesn’t register.

I still have two years with my youngest. We are doing a dance with angst and privileges and staying in his room all the time and gaming versus homework. You know, the teenager stuff. But every now and then, I’ll catch him in a good moment. We’ll share some cookies at the counter, or some chick-fil-a in the car, and talk about his role in the play, or a show we like, or exchange opinions about something happening in the world. I see glimmers of where we are going and I am happy and hopeful.

I saw a great meme the other day that said, “I’m not an empty nester. I’m a bird launcher.” Now that’s adulting! Perspective is key.

Love Y’all, Marla