Letting Go

My son is 18 now. Where the time has gone, I can't say. I remember giving birth to him, bringing him home from the hospital, watching him grow and being so incredibly proud of him as he tackled new things, made accomplishments, learned a new language, played sports, excelled... well, the list goes on.

He has decided to go up to nothern Ontario to spend a week with his dad. This isn't anything new - he's been doing this for the past 15 years.

In the past though, his father and I have both driven and met half-way to hand him off (it's about a 10 hour drive there and back for each of us). The past few years, I've taken him into Union Station in Toronto, bought his train ticket and seen him safely on the train, not leaving until it had pulled out of the station.

This morning, I took him into Burlington and dropped him off at the Go Station, the commuter train that runs through southern Ontario and has it's hub at Union Station in Toronto, where he will buy his ticket for the eleven hour journey and make his way through the crazy, bustling train station.

He's navigating on his own this time. I'm not there to make sure that he manages to find the right counter, buy his ticket, and find the platform to board his train.

The train pulls out at 8:40 - that's in 11 minutes. He's got his cell phone, and I've already texted him twice to make sure that everything is going ok. Neurotic? Maybe. But no matter his age, he's still my baby and this is the first time he's doing this on his own without me to guide him and make sure he's safe.

I won't rest until he lets me know that he's on the train and underway and that he's safe.

This parenting stuff is hard.