I should have been a Boy Scout. Always Be Prepared, that’s my motto. When I found out I was expecting our first child, I practically memorized What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I charted my Daily Dozen (enough dark green veggies? too much salt?) and avoided nitrates like the plague. I checked diaper prices at different stores, bought lots of plain white onesies, and practiced my Lamaze breathing. I read everything I could get my hands on and I understood that babies needed lots of love, that taking care of one was hard work, and that in those newborn months I would be really, really tired.

Except I didn’t. I didn’t really understand at all. As all mothers know, the books can describe motherhood for us, but until we’re there, we don’t really get it. I didn’t realize, for example, the enormous responsibility I would suddenly feel for this life, this tiny little life I was holding in my arms, that would one day grow into a man. I didn’t know how overwhelming it would be to take care of such a tiny little soul. I knew I’d be tired, but I didn’t understand that the exhaustion would be overwhelming. I never expected to feel angry when my sweet baby, just a few weeks out of the womb, woke up in the middle of the night hungry, once again. I never imagined the morning that I’d beg my husband to stay home, to please stay home and help, as I crumpled onto my bed in tears.

But time passed. After a few months, my growing baby started sleeping 12 hours a night, and with uninterrupted sleep, my sanity returned. One day followed the next, and soon he was smiling and clapping and sitting up in the bathtub. Life was good. When my next baby came, I was ready. This time I expected the exhaustion, and made accommodations for it. The second time around was so much easier, and I breathed a sigh of relief. By the time he was 6-months old, we were all into the swing of things and life with two little ones was even better than I could’ve predicted. A few years later, my third son tried to derail all of us with his constant preference for me. Used to babies that napped well and slept through the night after a few months, I didn’t know what to do with this insistent little guy, who complained every single night when I placed him in his crib. I rocked, and consoled, and tried my best, but he never wavered. He was almost 1 ½ before he went to sleep without complaint, and many of those nights I cried right along with him. But time kept ticking, and he’s grown into a lovely boy, a charmer, a complete sweetheart who sleeps like an angel.

As my angels sleep, I continue to read. I read about toddlers, I read about discipline, I read about raising boys and feeding kids and learning styles. And I find a lot of good stuff in these books, really, I do. But I’ve reached a point, once again, where books have failed me. While I understand perfectly well that my children are independent souls, while I know that part of my goal in raising them is to help them become strong, compassionate young men with thoughts of their own, I find myself as unprepared for their growing up as I was for their newborn midnight waking. As my oldest becomes a teenager, I know that this boy is not merely an extension of me; he is his own person. And yet it feels like a part of my body is tearing away, I can feel the flesh ripping, near my heart, while tears pour from my eyes when I lay down at night. My mind understands it all, but my heart is breaking.

We still have time, I know. Six years until he leaves for college, and we still have the joy of puberty to endure in the meantime. I am excited to see the man he becomes, but I can still feel the baby in my arms, and I can’t imagine how we’ve gotten this far already. Thirteen years ago, older moms in the grocery stores and restaurants cooed at my baby and I didn’t understand. They told me to enjoy my little one, because the time goes so fast. But my days and nights seemed endless then, and I didn’t get it; I couldn’t comprehend. Countless parents have informed me that when my son hits high school, it’s a flash and he’ll be gone. Be Prepared, I tell myself. Be Prepared. But I know, now, I know that no matter how often I hear it or how much I read about it, I won’t be. I won’t ever be prepared for the leaving and I can’t possibly understand what it will feel like until we get there. But that’s something, I think. Recognizing that phases and stages will take me by surprise, understanding that I’m not prepared: there’s something to that, and I think that’s the best I can do for now.