I know that I’m kind of a flake when it comes to posting. I can go months without posting anything (hint: I update Mom, Interrupted’s Facebook page more frequently, but then again, glaciers move more frequently than I update the blog so don’t get all excited there) and then I get all streaky and start adding things all over the place.

I am, however, attentive to some things, and one of them is the Eighteen Year Old Column.

When the oldest Kid, Interrupted turned eighteen I marked the occasion with a schmaltzy ode to her. The fact that at that time I was facing a stunning writer’s block, coupled with an appalling lack of column ideas, is mere serendipity.

No matter: if I did it for one, I really needed to do it for the other three. And, flakiness aside, I have.

So here they are, with the most recent one first. I’ll be the first to admit that this isn’t my finest writing; these are pretty damn mawkish. I’m giving myself a pass, considering that when I wrote these I was crying ugly at my keyboard at the thought of MY BABY all grown up.

I cried the ugliest for this, the last one. The youngest Kid, Interrupted has been stopping my heart from Day One. Add that to the end of twenty-six years of parenting minors (Hey, kids! Now you can all be tried as adults!) and I’m a sentimental pile of goo.

Cole (scroll all the way down if you don’t want to click out of here)

Lane

Abby

Sam

*****

Birthdays usually feature gifts for the honoree, and trust me: we’ll get to the presents soon enough. But on this, my son Cole’s 18th birthday, I want to talk about what the youngest Kid Interrupted has given me over the years.

You may not remember this, Cole, but one long-ago summer day I was making dinner and tripped over a dinosaur, because that’s what happens when little boys play underfoot. I cracked my knee hard on the tile and as I lay in front of the fridge writhing in pain you ran into the kitchen, surveyed the situation and cheerfully announced, “I help, Mommy!”

Displaying aplomb beyond your two years, you stepped over my thrashing form, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a stick of butter and thrust it into my hands with, surreally enough, one of my bras that you had stashed in the crisper drawer for just such an emergency.

One manic Christmas Eve you broke your elbow jumping on the couch. When we finally managed to get you to the orthopedic surgeon he gravely announced that he’d have to reset the elbow, and did you want to visit the emergency room for a painkiller or did you just want to do it now? You said “now,” but you gripped my hand tightly and whispered, “Don’t let go.”

Just last year we were flying to Denver together and my pre-check status let me avoid the TSA line. I stayed with you though, so we could chat together during the tedious wait. When we finally arrived at the check in, the agent examined my ticket and said, “Ma’am, you could have skipped this line, you know.”

“But I wanted to stay with him,” I replied, indicating my tall, gracious, handsome teen-aged son, who flashed a winning smile, grabbed my hand, and murmured knowingly to the agent: “Grandma needs help getting though the airport.”

Not long ago I had to pick you up at school and as we walked off the campus you reached for my hand. Now, I have always loved it that you want to hold my hand in public, but this is high school! Your friends will see! Are you sure you want to do that?

You held tight to my hand and we walked to the car.

It hasn’t always been easy. On the day you were born, the doctors used words like “abruption” and “massive blood loss” to explain why you were born blue and still as they worked feverishly to keep you alive. I spent that long first day sitting next to your incubator as you struggled to breathe, and even then your tiny hand tightly gripped my finger.

When the nurses settled you into my waiting arms on that night 18 Decembers ago, you gave me the best Christmas present ever: The Happiest Moment of My Life.

I have never wanted to be a helicopter parent and it’s a little late to start that act now. I know I have to relinquish your hand soon; it’s the only way you can march off into your future.

But even though this is much harder than I anticipated, I’ll try to reset my days the way you reset your elbow, with no tears.

And I’ll try not to whisper, “Don’t let go.”

copyright E. Stocking Evans 2015