In the late 1980's my husband and I were given two gifts of life.  Our first gift was a daughter, and a few years later, a son.  We were overwhelmed by the powerful love we felt in those early moments of their births and which continues to grow with each passing day. 

Since the day they were delivered to us we have been forever grateful for their presence in our lives.  They are everything we could have hoped for, and through the years they have truly given more to us than we ever have--or ever will-- give to them. But we wholeheartedly  recognized early on that we would have one shot at parenting them, and we would absolutely not be able to go back and do it over again. 

The next twenty years were devoted to raising two healthy, happy and well adjusted children. We thankfully have been there for every milestone so far in their lives.  We saw the first tooth, the first steps, the first goal in hockey, the first ballet performance, the first prom.  We of course were front and center for their graduations from high school.   Now, they are both in college. And yes, it was that fast: A  blink of an eye really.

Having my children leave home is an inevitable life event which to me is both bitter and sweet.  They are not mine to keep and that is the design. Logically I recognize this, emotionally I don't.  I was only allowed to have them for what seems like a grain of sand in time. 

Now, our home is very quiet these days.  When I get home from work everything is exactly as I left it that morning. There are no shoes or book bags at the door to trip over.  There is less laundry to wash, and no daily conflicts to solve.  The once busy calendar on the wall now has nothing written on it.  Forever vanished are the moment-to-moment and day-to-day parenting issues.  

It is the end of a phase of life where the details and events have already been permanently cast in stone. The bitter.  Yet, it is the beginning of a new chapter for both of us full of deliberate choices that have yet to be etched in stone. The sweet.

I find it ironic that their lives are paralleling mine at this exact moment in time.  They were given their wings, and I am suddenly given back mine.  The new found independence that we both are experiencing is unfolding by the day.  We both can intentionally choose any road we want to go take.  I have sent them on a journey-- with hopefully the right tools-- and have told them that the sky is the limit and they can do or be anything they dream as long as they have love in their hearts and compassion for others. And if that is true for them, then it must be true for me too.

This is a tall order for both of us.  We are both uncertain of what the future will bring, but we welcome it with enthusiasm and excitement.  Oh, the possibilities!  But there is one main difference in this paralleling of each others lives:  At age 20 they think they have forever to make up their minds about how they will spend their days, and at age 50 I am wise enough to know we both do not. There is urgency to it all.  I absolutely know how fast the last twenty years raced by, and I unequivocally know how quickly the next twenty will pass. 

So begins the next chapter of my life.  

I have decided to do one thing each day that either I have never done before, or that I haven't done by myself in a long time.  I am going to say 'yes'  when someone asks me to go somewhere or to do something, because I know a 'yes' will always open many more unknown pathways than a 'no'.  I vow to try things that up until now have been out of my comfort zone.  I will take some calculated risks that I otherwise didn't have time to do, or would not have attempted in the childrearing stage of my life.   I will once again be the full-time driver on the road of my life. 

And yet, even with all of this new found independence that has suddenly been bestowed upon me, there will be no other place that I would rather be than present for the next set of milestones in the lives of my children.  After all, I am still in fact a mother and always will be--a small comfort that I will take into my next life passage.

By Karen Capaccioli

Karen Capaccioli lives in Hanover with her husband (and two 20-something children on occasion). As Wink South's 'Voice of Reason', she shares the epiphanies that arise when we allow ourselves to look back.