No Expiration Date

Still Becoming · No. 04

Raising children is one of the hardest jobs there is. I think, as a society, we under-articulate not just the sacrifices you make as a parent, but the sheer responsibility of successfully raising a person. People often say, “well, they’re 18, I’ve done my job,” but children don’t come with an expiration date. Or at least, not in my book. The love and hope you carry for them, that they’ll be safe, that they’ll find happiness and joy, that’s something that keeps you up at night for the rest of your life.

And when you do see them find that happiness, real success, real joy, it brings a kind of gratification that’s hard to put into words. Achieving your own success feels good. But watching your children experience theirs is on a different level entirely. It’s a peaceful, fulfilling feeling that washes over you like a sweet summer breeze on a hot day.

I'm entering a new phase now. I have so many memories from raising both of my girls: learning to ride big wheels, then bikes, cheering from the sidelines at every sporting event, college visits, graduation day. I've loved every phase, though I'll admit the early years are mostly a blur (sheer exhaustion will do that to your memory). But life has slowed down now. My girls are young women now, one working as an event coordinator for a tech event company, the other as an assistant manager at a retail brand, and I get to soak them in differently than I could back then.

This past weekend gave me exactly that kind of moment. My oldest was visiting with her boyfriend from California, and Saturday night the whole family ended up sitting out back after takeout sushi, half-watching the World Cup wind down, playing a few rounds of Rummikub as the evening cooled off. Nothing was planned. Nothing was special, on paper. But I remember sitting there wanting to freeze it: the five of us, easy and unhurried, nowhere else anyone needed to be. That’s the moment that told me this chapter is real.

Both of my daughters have a sense of self-confidence I didn’t have at their age. They each have a sense of style, too, one I’d like to think they got from me. Watching them move through the world as fully themselves, without asking permission for it, is its own quiet kind of pride.

I have friends whose kids are getting married now, becoming grandparents. I know that day is coming for me too. But for now, I’m not rushing toward it. I’m enjoying exactly where we are: this version of our relationship, this particular chapter, this Saturday night with sushi containers still on the table and the cards still in our hands.

The lesson: Parenthood doesn’t end at 18. The worry doesn’t, and neither does the joy. The ordinary nights, the ones with no occasion attached, are often the ones worth freezing in time. Don’t wait for a milestone to soak it in.

Still becoming, one Sunday at a time. 🖤