Rain spattered onto the windshield as I sat in the parking lot for a few more selfish seconds. Nobody was behind me in the drop-off line. I watched as my freshman daughter walked with purpose next to her unbothered senior brother. Two completely different personalities were making their way to their first classes on another ordinary Friday morning. Soon, my son will graduate from my alma mater.
This has been the only year both of my kids walked into high school together, and it’s almost over. How many more drop-offs will there be? How many more mornings will I get to linger as I watch both kids walk into a building full of potential, gaining skills to become adults in this complicated world? Letting go of teens is a step no parent knows how to prepare for.
When they were little, those first morning drop-offs were painful. I handed over my baby to a person who came highly recommended, but who was still no more than a stranger to me. Placing a carefully packed diaper bag on an entryway bench, I gave my little boy a final smooch for the morning before singing goodbyes in a fake cheerful voice. The future of letting go of teens wasn’t even something I could imagine.
I cried every morning for months when I returned to my car. With no tiny human in the back seat, I sped to work with tears staining my cheeks. I cursed the culture that valued money and health insurance more than a mom singing lullabies to her overtired baby in a glider rocker, comforting his tears instead of trying to stop her own.
The next four years of drop-offs were easier. He was joined by his sister and delighted in the role of big brother. He made friends in the child care center. He snuggled on laps when listening to a story about trucks or animals. He found that coveted train table. Sometimes he had tears, but the teachers knew how to distract and engage him ( the train table). Mornings were hectic, but I was proud to see his personality grow and shine with each new year.
The next nine years felt like they would go on forever; letting go of teens was a speck on the very distant horizon. He began kindergarten in the K-8 school where I worked. I knew his teachers and classmates, routines and expectations. He walked into school with me every morning. Sometimes we went to the noisy cafeteria, sometimes to the rooms where I worked with the big kids before heading to his classroom. Sooner than anticipated, he became one of those big kids. Drop-offs were filled with hesitation, angst, and worry about everything adolescent. Covid turned everything upside down and fostered its own set of worries and angst that made us need to turn ourselves right-side up again.
Nearly a decade of walking into school together soon came to an end. With all of the hustle and morning checklists, I didn’t realize those last few walks into the school would feel so shocking.
Letting go no longer lived in the distant future. It was approaching so quickly, I didn’t know how to process it. Each progression felt larger and more meaningful. On his last day of 8th grade, I (the overly sentimental mom) attempted to document him (the surly teenager) as he ducked away from a phone pointed in his direction.
“Mom, why are you doing this now?”
High school began like a torrent and was, in truth, the first step in letting go of teens. He briskly walked into school, away from me in the car drop-off line, and I had to be content with a picture of him walking away from me. The drop-off line was long, and parents were in a rush. Students ran into the building and disappeared from their parents’ eyes, leaving behind hectic mornings filled with arguments about breakfast, deodorant, reminders to brush their teeth, eyerolling, and my mind was echoing don’t forget.
As if by magic, those hectic mornings became more manageable. There were fewer reminders. Less, hurry up; we’re going to be late. Much less eye rolling. More getting up on time and wanting to be early to class. The years of frenzied drop-offs slowly slipped into making a breakfast shake for my little 6’ tall boy and having him take care of the rest. He organizes himself now. He plans for his own future. He has friends and interests (beyond the train table), and wants to do things well. I look at him and know he’s a good person. I’m so proud of him and curious about what his future holds.
An SUV pulls up behind me, so I shift into drive. As the school gets smaller in my rearview mirror, I smile with pride. If a tear forms now, it’s not because someone else is taking care of him, and I might miss a developmental milestone. I still have my worries because I’m Mom, and that’s my job. Now he and I are more often on the same page than not. We have important conversations. He’s ready to think about bigger life goals.
There may not be many more school drop-offs ahead, and letting go of my teen is happening now, but my role is shifting, and I get to be a passenger in his future. I’m cautiously gearing up for this new role. But in case I have a hard time with the twists and turns, I’ll bring along some Dramamine. Letting go of teens is not for the weak.
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Guest Writer: Marie Jennette
Marie Jennette was born and raised in Vermont and continues to live close to her childhood home in Franklin County. Fueled by chocolate, she is a mom to two teens, has three step-teens, and two cats who might as well be teens.
Marie has a background in early childhood education, but for the last decade has been working with middle schoolers. She strives to make a difference during the most tumultuous time of child development. If she had one wish, it would be that everyone could be kind to others.
