It’s strange to be the mother of a 21-year-old man. I am in awe of his youth, his talent, his intelligence, his height, his looks, his charisma.

How to be the mom of a 21-year-old?

I am learning to let go and let him be. It’s hard to do. He’s his own person now. Well, he’s always been his own person. But he’s officially his own person now.

I try not to smother him with affection, attention and concern. That said, I’ll always be the fixing, nagging, kvelling mom. And yet, it’s his turn now to make his life happen.

He’s making his own life now.

Like many kids these days, he’s living at home. I think we co-exist nicely. He’s not in my way, I try not to be in his way. We try to respect each other.

On his birthday I remember his beginnings: I had to stay in bed for five-and-a-half months (pre-term labor). The nurse shouted out, “He’s cute!” when he came out. The gentle, tender way my husband held him as the doctor sewed up my C-section.

The love that was instant and forever.

So many years between then and now. So much much to savor and adore. So much more to say but not saying it might just be the best gift I could give him.

He’s 21 after all.