Nobody tells you that one night you'll brush your teeth, rummage in your nightstand for that favorite hand cream and then get up the next day and your child has woken up as an 18-year-old.
In between the PBJs and worrying about sugar consumption, tucked beneath layers of "make wise choices!" and filling Hydroflasks for overstuffed backpacks, it's tricky to find time to pause and relish and remember.
The tiny, little bitty hands that were always sticky like glue. Car seats littered with Cheerios and goldfish, Star Wars Lego figurines crowded on bedroom windowsills and the giant bin of costumes that were worn and reworn and never washed despite the stains and smears and tattered zippers.
Early mornings and forts and playground monkey bars. Bike rides with sticker-covered helmets, fleece sweatshirts and vests and gloves and ice cold dips in the majestic Tahoe waters, regardless of season.
Before we knew it, Indiana Jones and the powers of make-believe made way for Homecomings and Proms and truck-driving independence. Crayolas and temporary tattoos and bandaids just for fun traded in for Scantrons and laptops and gym workouts.
So here we are. EIGHTEEN. Which as an aside, is extra crazy since we're still fresh-eyed newlyweds in our early 30s, driving home from the hospital up and down the windy mountain roads with a baby in a car seat, firmly grasping on to the only concrete bit of advice from our favorite pediatrician: feed him when he's hungry.
And we did just that.
Keep on crushing it, Curtis. And anytime you are hungry, come home.
