I Wasn’t Prepared for This Stage of Parenting: The Un-Neediness

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Sometimes, it feels like I’ve stumbled into a time warp. Another summer has slipped away, the nights have turned brisk, and the soccer season is in full swing. Dance classes kick off in just two weeks. Thanksgiving will be upon us before we know it, followed quickly by Christmas, lacrosse, track, and recitals. And then comes the last summer when both of my kids will still be under my roof. Each time I turn a calendar page, I’m struck by an unsettling sense of impending closure.

How did we get here so fast?

It seems like just yesterday I was sweating it out at the pool with a 2- and 4-year-old, worrying about my post-baby swimsuit figure while keeping a watchful eye to prevent any near-drownings. Kindergarten felt like a distant dream, let alone high school or college. I can vividly recall exchanging glances with another mom at the kiddie pool—her eyes seemed to say, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to relax under that big tree with a book?” My silent reply: “Yes, I can’t wait for my daughter to swim solo—so she won’t need me anymore.”

Fast forward, and I haven’t set foot in a pool for three years. My daughter has outgrown me; she wouldn’t be caught dead with me there now. She’s got her friends, trendy swimsuits, and boys vying for her attention.

Recently, while cleaning under the bed, I stumbled upon a lonely green Lego piece. The days of constructing elaborate brick worlds are long past. Back then, I often felt the urge to rush through phases of parenthood, Lego sessions included. Maybe it was my hectic work life mixed with the relentless demands of little ones that urged me forward. Or perhaps it was the annoyance of tiny Lego pieces scattered throughout the house.

Rush. Rush. Rush.

If only I could rewind time and savor those moments, building more Lego castles. I tucked that little green brick into my jewelry box as a keepsake.

What happened to the American Girl dolls? The mountain of stuffed animals? The princess costumes? That enormous dollhouse? It’s as if they vanished. My children have replaced me with their own interests—friends, lessons, and teams.

And where did my sweet son’s floppy hair go? Now, there’s a 6-foot teenager with a crew cut grunting “I don’t know” more often than not. The young woman in my daughter’s room, once my spirited toddler, now asks me to pick up tampons and mascara at the store. Oh my goodness!

I catch a glimpse of a middle-aged woman with fine lines and gray roots in the mirror.

Fridays and Saturdays have grown quiet. I’m no longer the young mom I once was. My children don’t rely on me the way they did as toddlers, but the other day, my son asked me to toss a lacrosse ball for him to practice. I obliged.

Just last week, he wanted me to watch Boyz n the Hood with him. My desk was cluttered with to-do lists and work calls waiting for attention. To be honest, I was looking forward to a chunk of uninterrupted time to catch up on tasks. But the thought of green Lego pieces reminded me to slow down.

We watched the movie, and then we talked about it. It turned into one of those rare, quiet moments we shared this summer. My daughter tends to open up late at night, right when I’m fighting to stay awake. But I do, because I know she needs me—even if it’s just for a late-night chat.

They still require rides, advice, and boundaries. Just like newborns, they seem to need to be fed constantly. Yet, as the toys of childhood disappear, the food vanishes just as quickly.

Times are changing. We’ve navigated countless phases together. New horizons and thrilling adventures await us. I’ve resolved to cherish each moment, opting to watch a movie or have a heartfelt conversation—even if it means putting my own priorities on hold. And that’s perfectly fine.

Isn’t that what every parent strives for? Independent children? My mother reassures me that my kids will always need me, just as I still need her, and that each stage brings its own unique challenges. I suppose I just wasn’t ready for how quickly this un-neediness would come. It’s like the laws of time warp when you’re a mom, and the last moments come hurtling toward you like meteors.


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