My son hit his 18th birthday a few weeks ago .Excitement for him . Relief for me. Me and his father split when I was pregnant with him and I was 21 . I can’t in all honesty say I raised him on my own. I have very good friends who had a hand in his upbringing and his Dad was there at the end of the phone to rant at. However, I did the majority of the parenting, a lot of it badly.
At 21 I felt mature enough and ready to be a mum . I didn’t have a clue. The mistakes I’ve made over the last 18 years still make me cringe when I think about them now. My son, now 18 is the product of years of unconditional love, tears, frustration, moments of heart bursting pride and pure fury. So, when he made it to 18 it was a celebration for him and a hugely emotional time for me . That despite all those mistakes and moments of bad judgement we managed to make it to 18 without any drugs, alcohol (mother’s denial) theft, police or bunking off school .I managed to produce a well rounded half decent human being with a good chance at going to University .
Then I woke up the day after his 18th and realised it wasn’t over. I was expecting an “you’re on your own now kid” type transition . Nope. Not a chance. It’s like getting to retirement and on your last day someone tells you you’ve actually got another 5 years left.