This morning Facebook reminded me that 11 years ago today Huck began riding his little yellow bike along the Hudson River without training wheels. Troy captured me running slowly alongside our helmeted six year old as he began learning to navigate around and behind other New Yorkers on feet, bikes, rollerblades, leashes, and in strollers. As always when these memories come crashing into my present day life, I smiled and remembered the day well. But mostly I became fixated on the still image of my 41 year old self jogging beside him, because it feels like the perfect symbol of parenthood: exhausting and terrifying supporting role.

Nowadays it’s all about navigating the road to college, wherever that may lead, sans helmet. Me running alongside shouting encouraging commands while Huck fills out applications, writes essays, attends a model class over Zoom, meets with his counselor, and gathers letters of recommendation does not sit well with our serious scholar. A few weeks ago he drafted a very hardcore contract for each of us to sign which stated that we will have weekly check-in meetings and a deadline document created by him. If I want to ask a question, I have to first call an additional meeting which might be vetoed. Emergency meetings can be called at any time and never vetoed, but they must not be abused. After I signed my name, Huck explained in all seriousness, “I made this contract to protect me from you.”

Awkward silence.

So I’m trying to play it cool over here, trusting that he is somehow managing all this extra work on top of his usual load as deadlines loom. I’ve learned words like Early Decision, Early Action, Regular Decision, National Merit, FAFSA, net cost calculator, and Common App. I try not to monopolize every conversation with my favorite topic. I feel mildly obsessed, like maybe I should become a college counselor. I live for our weekly check-ins and am dying for one of my family members to call an additional meeting so I can ask questions. (I’ve already called one and could feel the annoyance from them both.) Today on the phone my dad said, “Nothing is worse than worrying about your child. It’s so much worse than worrying about yourself.”

Our family contract greets me every time I enter the kitchen, held to our fridge by a powerful magnet. That same fridge whose ice dispenser only sometimes dispenses ice, next to our sink who’s garbage disposal needs replacing, near the counter where our favorite bowl (and wedding gift from 30 years ago) sits with a huge piece broken off. This too feels like a symbol of parenthood these days: tired, well-used, in need of repair. But still we put on our running shoes and do an imaginary little jog alongside our brave adventurer.

Fayetteville High School, Senior Year