It was just his first day of kindergarten. KINDERGARTEN! I’d worried and stressed about the right school. I’d checked out all of the local options and lost a lot of sleep trying to make the right decision.

I landed on an alternative school that was run by the public school board in our area. With its outdoor program and left-leaning values I was sure this was a perfect match.

And it was, for quite some time.

I put in time parenting my baby, nurturing, growing, daycare, school drop-offs, concerts, plays and field trips. I was class parent, student council member, made costumes and cakes and sent in treats for parties, bake sales and movie nights.

And now it’s over.

He graduated from Grade 8. My Little Bunny has reached the next level. He can roam free on his own without supervision. He makes mature, sometimes wildly inappropriate jokes. He might just be a bit smarter than me, I’m ready to admit it.

And I need to stop calling him Little Bunny. (Out loud, anyways, in my head I will NEVER stop!)

When I was pushing the boundaries of teenagerdom my mom realized she wasn’t done with having little bunnies around, and at 35 she had my sister. My parents were definitely considered “older” but having more children in your 30s wasn’t terribly uncommon in the ’80s.

As good girls did in the ’60s, my mother got married at 21 and had me – her first – at 24, with my brother following along 2 years later. By the time my parents got around to having #3, my brother and I were old enough to help with the new kid. We diapered, and fed, and babysat and helped with it all.

But that’s the thing with starting a family at 40-ish. By the time I realized that I wasn’t done with baby bunnies, my body was like “sorry sistah, that mall has closed.”

There would be no second act, no time to add one more. In your 20s and 30s it’s more often an active decision you make about whether to have more baby bunnies, but when you start pushing 50, it’s not terribly likely that you have any say in the matter. Even looking into adoption, while there is no upper age limit, the hoops can get harder to jump through. And as any 40-ish parent knows, the ‘grandparent’ comments do start. Babies at 50? I know people who have had surprises at 50+, and the ‘grandparent’ comments just don’t stop.

So what I’ve been wondering is, do we “late maternal age”-ers hold on tighter? Because we can’t extend the baby time, do we impose our emotions on our young adults? I feel like I’ve had to work extra hard to loosen the reigns and lengthen the leash and let them fly on their own. I even romanticize those days of extra bedtime stories and snuggles, looking back longingly – when, in actuality, I just wanted them to go the f#$% to bed most nights, and was exhausted beyond all reason by the time their nighttime routine was complete.

We went to his Grade 8 graduation and I loved every minute of it. I love that he didn’t want to fall in with the troops and get formalwear, because it’s just not him. I love that he rolled with it and went for me, even though he didn’t see the big deal about grade 8 graduation. I loved all of it.

What I didn’t love was accepting it all. He’s no Little Bunny, he’s a big kid. A teen. A high schooler. He’s making his own decisions and cooking up his own plans.

At 50 with children that are really starting to flex their independence, I have this constant feeling like I’ve got handfuls of sand. The more I try to hold onto them and keep all the moments and memories of sand wrapped up safe and tight, the faster the grains of sand slip through my fingers and into the past.

So onwards and upwards to high school, but I’ve decided that he may have to put up with me calling him Little Bunny just a little longer.