My panic isn’t about mess or planning or report cards.  Some days I wish it was.  It’s about this:

Number four, out the door.  Just recently brushing past 17, acting anywhere between 12 and 30 on any given day, manning up to the responsibilities of driving, full time job, mentoring younger siblings and realizing that we are, actually, pretty decent parents in the big scheme of things. 

Am I panicking?  Yes, it’s interior.  A quiet panic. 

Where have the years gone?  
He is my oldest son.

I’ll miss him so much, even the pain in the neck parts. He drinks coffee with me, tells me all about his science or his math, which I never understand and he forgets.  We ride roller coasters together.  

Every. Single. Day.