I remember, roughly eighteen years ago, waking up in a panic, springing from the bed and into my firstborn baby's room. I had been asleep for six hours and I was certain the outcome would be tragic. Once inside his room I watched silently, intently for the telltale sign, the raising and lowering of his chest to indicate that he was alive and breathing. He was. Instant relief. Could it be? He had defied all the baby books and actually slept through the night at something like six weeks old. This scenario would repeat itself for a week or so before I could relax and accept that it wasn't a sign of impending doom but just the way he was.
Fast forward eighteen years.
It's graduation night and our new graduate is attending an all night party. It's sponsored by the school so I'm not worried. But. At five in the morning the dog wakes me to take him out and I am hit again by that familiar feeling from long ago. Panic. Did he make it home? Well, yes. On the way downstairs I ran into him in the kitchen. Instant relief.
Honestly, they have no clue about the roller coaster ride they take us on, these kids. And if they did they would just roll their eyes and wonder what the big deal is. I miss those carefree days. But I do love a good roller coaster ride.