Some weeks feel like they drag — work, kids, meal planning, the usual chaos — but then something happens that makes you stop in your tracks. This week, that moment was my oldest turning 18.
Eighteen.
It still doesn’t feel real. I can remember the long nights, the toddler tantrums, the endless snack requests, the school drop‑offs that felt like they would last forever. Back then, time moved slow. Some days felt like they were made of molasses.
But then you blink.
And suddenly that tiny baby who fit in the crook of your arm is standing in your kitchen, taller than you, making plans for his future. The same kid who once needed help tying his shoes is now officially an adult. It’s wild how the slow days somehow add up to fast years.
We still had our normal week — Monday my husband made his favorite Shepherd’s Pie, last night I kept things simple with spaghetti, and tonight everyone is fending for themselves because it’s been a week. But underneath the routine, everything feels a little different. A little bigger. A little more meaningful.
Watching him turn 18 has been this mix of pride, nostalgia, and disbelief. I’m so excited for who he’s becoming, but part of me still sees that little boy running around the house with messy hair and mismatched socks.
Time is funny like that. Slow in the moment, fast in the memory.
And now here we are — stepping into a new chapter, one that came quicker than I ever expected, even if the days getting here sometimes felt endless.
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