Some days, I catch myself wondering how my kids will describe their childhoods to their therapists.

I’m not that disillusioned to believe growing up in MY house won’t result in the need to pay a well-educated stranger while they sit comfortably in a well appointed office, recounting stories of raucous dinners or “that time my Mom… <insert some inappropriate off-the-cuff commentary here>”. I’ll help pay, since it’s partially my fault they’ll be there.

My son even reminds me of this inevitable fact several times a week. “I’ll file that under ‘What I’ll Tell My Therapist'” he’ll snort at the dinner table after some episode of getting poked with a fork or me pretending to steal his food.

It’s all in good jest, lest anyone think we aren’t a loving family and I never poke hard enough to make a mark or draw blood. What kind of mother do you think I am?

Yesterday, I invited the kiddos to accompany me on a run to the grocery store, which, coincidentally, sits in close proximity to a Starbucks. In the age of COVID, a trip to the overpriced coffee giant stands as one of a select few motivations to propel my ultra-introverts out of the house. A fire, I’m guessing might supersede a Mocha Frappuccino, but I can happily neither confirm or deny. They raced to the car, under the promise of refreshing caffeinated beverages, and we drove to the plaza.

I think back 12 short years, to their toddler and preschool days, and how I dreaded leaving my house with kids in tow. One kid ran away from wherever I stood, the other was non-responsive except when I shouted her name. My full time job consisted of organizing playdates and speech therapy appointments and psychologist visits, and searching for pants that didn’t dig into my son’s sensitive skin or discovering a new hair detangler that allowed me to brush my daughter’s hair without a violent, screaming fit of rage. I desperately wish the term neurodivergent entered the lexicon back then. If 2008 me saw the acceptance and understanding my neuro-atypicals receive at school and in the wild, she’d sob with surprise and awe.

They still struggle, but in ways that resemble more of typical teenagers. Zits and clothes and messy rooms and homework and Reddit upvotes and Dischord live streams fill our days.

Smack in the middle of spring break, nature blessed us here in New England with a 70 degree day, so we made a beeline for our favorite sushi spot in town, ate at a table outside, exchanged memes, and laughed our way through lunch. I sat there, looking at my kiddos-turning-young-adults-I-really-really-adore and the journey of just how far we’ve come wasn’t lost on me.

Two. More. Years.

Two more years, then they’re done with high school. Two more years and my boy embarks on an adventure to some far off land that most couldn’t find on a map to immerse himself in a world of building and creating and exploring and discovery. Two more years and my girl sets off on her own journey, yet unknown, to likely weave her music in some form, or write, or maybe follow her brother, who knows. Maybe she’ll find love. Maybe he’ll finally take his comedy on the road. Two more years and my intrepid partners in crime leave the nest.

I’m not ready.

I read somewhere that babies don’t learn to walk by running a marathon. They get up, give it a go, fall down a lot, get back up, try again, and keep going until mastering the drunk-looking stumble, then teetering into a regular gait, then they run. What a perfect encapsulation of my kids, still mastering the shuffle and gaining their stride, one step at a time. In 15 years, so many steps, so many accomplishments, so many trips and falls, so many restarts, and peeks into their sprints.

But not too fast, kids. Let’s take those next two years in stride.