By Jenny Albers 
I remember the exact moment it hit me. My newborn daughter, swaddled in a receiving blanket, was cradled in my arms. I rocked her in our newly purchased rocker-recliner, wearing my lightweight postpartum robe with a nursing bra underneath. Our eyes locked, and I suddenly felt so big. Her smallness nearly took my breath away.
That’s when a sense of panic suddenly rushed over me, and I was confronted with the enormity of motherhood. I was responsible for this child for at least 18 years. EIGHTEEN! Sure, I knew that going in, but I hadn’t fully comprehended this very important parenting fact until then. My chest constricted. My shoulders tightened. My mind swirled.
As I sat staring at my baby girl’s precious face, 18 years might as well have been termed infinity. In my mind, it was a measurement of time beyond comprehension. I couldn’t imagine the baby tucked in my arms being any older or bigger than she was right then. How would we make it that far? I wondered. She was so small, the days were so long, and the nights were so disorienting—it felt like her babyhood would last forever.
But, of course, it didn’t. Because here we are. Closer to the end of those 18 years than we are to the beginning.
That baby girl snuggled in my arms all those years ago is now so . . . big. She’s as tall as me. I no longer tilt my head down to look her in the eye. Soon, I’ll probably be looking up.
“It goes by so fast,” people loved to tell me back when motherhood was brand new. “She’ll be grown before you know it,” the older ladies would tell me every time I stepped foot in public with my baby girl. But what they didn’t say is that the older my daughter got, the faster time would seem to go, and the more quickly she would seem to grow.
I have to say, those early years didn’t seem to go by all that fast. Days and nights were simply a cycle of diaper changes, feeding, and laundry before shifting to endless food spills and splatters, potty training, and bedtime battles. The list of needs both big and small only seemed to grow longer. Getting to the point when my baby seemed more like a human and less like a wild animal, seemed to take a very long time.
But then one day, a few weeks ago, the phrase high school registration entered the conversation, and suddenly 18 years feels impossibly close. Even though that 18-year mark is still a few years away, it may as well be tomorrow judging by the accelerated rate at which time seems to pass these days. I think back to that single moment in the rocker-recliner when it seemed far too long a timespan to measure, and marvel at how we are over two-thirds of the way to the finish line I couldn’t yet see.
Now, I don’t believe that 18 is some kind of magic number or age. I’m confident in my belief that mothering continues after a child reaches the age at which the powers that be consider them to be an adult. But it is a massive milestone, the end of a long, complicated, beautiful race that no longer seems as long as it once did.
The finish line is still in the distance, but I can see it now, and I’m not ready to cross it. I’d be content for the race to last a little longer. I’d be happy to run it a little slower. I’d like to move the finish line a little further back. I’m not ready for it now, and I can’t imagine I’ll be ready for it a few years from now.
Because even though 18 years seemed like forever, time and age have taught me it will never feel like enough.
by Kelsey Scism 
by Michelle Hurst 
by Dani Stroda 
