My mind and my heart have been set on parents today–especially the little expecting mamas who, in this heat, are ready to have their internal thermostats reset to normal levels and to be done with wagging around the extra pounds that go into making a baby. Eldest Daughter is an August child, so I know the heaviness that comes with being nine months preggers in the hottest part of the summertime, when it feels like the end will never come, both of your pregnancy and the relentless heat, but then somehow, you cross the finish line, and you’re like Clark Griswold at the end of Christmas Vacation, saying, ”I did it,” followed by a smug smile and deeply contented sigh as you watch your plastic Santa Claus and reindeer spiral toward the stratosphere, which is much what parenthood feels like forever after.

For it is then that you learn that you’ve only gotten started with this parenting deal, and honest to goodness, the easiest part was pregnancy. At least it was that way for me–me, who only got morning sickness in the late afternoon, so I made it through the workday just fine before succumbing to dry heaves if I let myself get hungry. Once, in an effort to stave off the vomiting, I indulged too quickly in orange juice and Cheez-Its, only to find myself hugging the toilet bowl anyway. I went a good while without enjoying either one, so abhorred I was by their color and taste.

But that aversion didn’t last, and it wasn’t too many years later that I could polish off my girls’ snacks or meals, their leftover macaroni and cheese and broccoli, and those little jarred turkey wienies I cut into cubes for them. Eldest Daughter preferred to take hers whole, skinning it as if it were a banana, leaving the remnants on her high chair tray.

Maybe it was seeing the tiny baby in church this morning, one of a set of twins, who already looked like the spitting image of her mother. Or maybe it is hearing of parents moving their children into college dorms and apartments that has made me wax nostalgic and that has made me feel something for all parents at all stages of the neverending journey of parenthood.

When Eldest Daughter’s freshman year of college arrived, she moved into a dorm, one of a group of four girls sharing the space. The other parents and I exchanged numbers, just in case, but there was never a need to use them. Instead, I had Life360 to obsess over, tracking her every movement, watching the little dot that represented her life move from Point A to Point B on campus, staying out past 1:00 am at the art studio while she finished an assignment, or else traveling up I-65 at 70+mph.

I took up playing the guitar for the first few months of her college existence, for I needed something to do with my hands other than stare at my phone, consumed by existential dread for my firstborn’s survival and all the risk that comes with growing up and going out into this great big world. Isn’t that one of the goals? The umbilical cord was clipped long ago, yet try telling that to the heartstrings of the soul, constantly thrummed by the relentless emotions of parenthood:

Joy–I am so happy to be a parent!

Worry–Oh no, my kid’s temperature is 104! Do I need to go to the ER?

Pride–That’s my kid, doing her thing! You go, baby girl!

Embarrassment–That’s not my kid, could never be my kid. Didn’t I raise you better than this?

Frustration–I’ve already told you once—don’t color on the walls, don’t speed, don’t waste your money, don’t date that sorry loser!

Excitement–Christmas is coming, and so is vacation, and career plans, and maybe even grandchildren and great-grandchildren, one day.

Fear–Will my child be all right? What will the diagnosis be?

Anger–I told you to put those blankety-blank toys away already! I’m about to throw every one of them in the garbage!

Guilt–I’m sorry I said that/did that/threw that. My goodness, I’m wrecking my child.

Hope–It’s hard right now, but remember the good times. Things will get better. Never give up!

Doubt–Am I a good parent? Am I giving enough? Am I loving enough?

Overwhelm–I feel like giving up! These kids, this life, all the expectation, is just too hard! Gracious, would someone just wash the dang dishes!

Grief–My child has some major challenges. I’ve got to mourn what I thought parenting would be OR ELSE, the end of things has come—senior year, college graduation, empty nest. What will I do now that life is changing?

Love–Despite everything, all the ups and downs, I will always love you, my sweet child, my forever baby.

Guitar playing was a good thing. I learned several chords. I simultaneously toughened the fingertips on my left hand and toughened my nerve, reminding myself that letting go is as much a part of parenthood as are midnight feedings, potty training, signing the back-to-school forms, and bringing cupcakes for the fourth grade Christmas party. 

One of my standard self-imposed therapy songs, in those months, was “Horse with No Name” and its simple, alternating chords. I wailed on the guitar, heavy-handed, no light strumming, singing the chorus over and over again, followed by the la-la part, imagining going to a wide and empty place with no cell service and no choice but to trust in the good Lord to take care of my kid. It was out of my hands, but the guitar was in my hands, solid and real and sometimes painful, my woman’s palm gripping that too thick neck and my fingertips pressing into those too tough strings; but as my hands had something to do and my mind had a new task to learn, my anxious thoughts could rest.

Next up was Dwight Yoakam’s “A Thousand Miles from Nowhere.” Equally satisfying and mind-freeing, with a few more chords for splash in the pan. I was ready for the road now. Send me to Nashville, put me on a tour bus, sign me up for my own Eras tour.

Then October came, and I was normal again. The worst of it had passed, and I no longer felt the need to watch Life360 as if my child’s life depended upon it.

Fast forward to today: Eldest Daughter graduated with her bachelor’s degree this past May and got her first big girl job. She has her own apartment. She goes out to eat with friends. She works Monday through Thursday and has Fridays off. She has squash and tomato plants growing on her little porch. 

And I’m about to get to do it all over again, for Youngest Daughter is waiting in the wings, but I think I’ll be better this time. The start of her senior year has not been a sad time, for This Is the Way, as the Mandalorian says, as I well know. 

Youngest Daughter sat down next to me on the couch last week to talk about college and career plans, her long legs tucked up underneath her, her feet touching my legs, the way she did when she was small. Somewhere in my memory, I am rocking her again, remembering what had to be one of the last times I would rock her, for those long legs were already stretching down to my knees. 

Time compresses, then expands, and you experience the neverending big bang of parenting, where you can always see back to the beginning, do your best to live in the present, and hope beyond hope for the future. 

You know, I should have known Life360 would be a bust for me, for I couldn’t even sleep with a  baby monitor. I’d listen for Eldest Daughter’s whimpers and sighs, tiptoe into her bedroom to make sure she was breathing, then later, rinse, repeat. Rather than work myself into a state, I turned the thing off, stuck it in a drawer, and prayed to God to watch over my girl. I still heard her cries in the middle of the night, the good old-fashioned way, the way endless generations of parents have done it before, and got up to tend to her needs. Then I lay back down, prayed again, and trusted that things would be all right.

Parents—old parents, young parents, new parents, foster parents, expectant parents, college parents, senior year parents, kindergarten parents, adoptive parents, 100-year-old parents—somehow, I will keep believing that things will be all right. I hope you do, too.

For God’s got a baby monitor on all of us. He comes to us in the middle of the night, and He gently lifts us up, holding us as a parent does her child, soothing our cries and whispering gentle words of ease. 

He sees, and He knows.