The Back Seat...

Yesterday, I watched my 20-year-old son set off on his first cross-country road trip with friends. I hope it's the first of many adventures he'll take in his life.

I couldn't be more excited for him!

But I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a tiny ache in my heart, too.

Because with every new adventure comes the realization that there will be more and more of his life that I won't witness firsthand.

For the first 18 years, I had a front-row seat. I was there for the games, the concerts, the late-night talks, the vacations, the milestones, and all the little moments in between.

Now I've moved back a few rows.

Sometimes it even feels like I'm riding in the trunk. (Parents... you know.)

I catch glimpses of his life now instead of seeing every chapter unfold. And while I know that's exactly how it's supposed to be, it doesn't make the transition any easier.

The truth is, it isn't important that I see every moment.

It's important that he's out there living them.

That he's exploring, making memories, taking chances, laughing until his stomach hurts, getting lost, figuring his way back, finding himself, and building a life that belongs to him.

That's the whole goal of parenting, isn't it?

To raise children who don't need us every minute anymore.

It's just harder than anyone warns you.

This Thursday, my daughter is heading to Lollapalooza. I'll drive her into the city, drop her off, and spend the day on my own. Honestly, I'm looking forward to it - a quiet table by the water at Navy Pier, a good book, some writing, maybe a great meal.

But I also know it won't be long before I'm dropping her off at college instead.

And then I'll have a backseat view of her life, too.

Which somehow makes the moments I do get to witness even sweeter.

I never understood why my mom cried when she dropped me off for a three-day college orientation.

I was going to school two miles from home.

I was commuting.

I teased her relentlessly.

Now I understand.

It was never about the distance. It was about the shift.

One day, you're the center of their world. Then, little by little, you become someone cheering from the sidelines. You're still loved. You're still needed. But in a different way.

A mother's heart is such a strange place. It can be overflowing with pride for the independent, intelligent, incredible people our children are becoming... while quietly mourning the season when they belonged mostly to us.

They don't anymore.

They belong to the world.

And that's exactly as it should be.

Beautiful...

and just a little bit heartbreaking.