My son and I are in the middle of his college applications. No, I’m not one of those helicopter parents. I’m not writing his essay for him.
My son is a senior in high school this year. My first born. My 6'1" hairy, gangly, broad-shouldered baby. So last week, my son and I did what many have done before us: We visited a college campus. We spent the night in a hotel, took a tour the next day, spoke to some students and ate some...
Our bond is strong and even sweet. He still hugs me. But only in private. I love when he wraps his long arms around me, even if it’s for a millisecond. I get more high fives and fist pumps than hugs but that’s okay. I’ll take what I can get.
Morning. It’s still dark outside. I walk in right on time. Well, maybe a minute early. So that I have time to watch her sleep. She looks just like the toddler she used to be. Except now her bed is bigger and so is she.
Today is my son’s birthday. His 17th one. And for the first time ever, I’m not with him. I can't hug him more than he wants me to. I can't tell him, again, the story of his birth. And I can't bake him a birthday cake from scratch. (Oh, right, I wouldn't do that anyway.)